Refuge Denied

Two girls chalk a mandala

of green leaves and pink flowers

on the asphalt by a BART station.

A skinny kid with a Mohawk

carries his guitar into the sacred circle

and screams a Clash song.

A woman with a book of poems follows

but a homeless drunk pushes her aside

with a twenty-minute rendition of

“Suck my black dick!”

Welcome to San Francisco – sacred mandala of art and culture

refuge of stylish lesbians and Prius taxis

where a North Beach dog accompanies

a park-bench sax player with barks and growls

and the godfather of Chinese Tea

cajoles his patron over tiny cups

of Pu-Erh and High Mountain Oolong.

At the Zen Center a cholo jisha

with soul patch and baggy jeans

carries incense for a black-robed priest.

Panhandlers give high fives and broken-toothed smiles

to passersby who travel sidewalks that glitter

like the Milky Way.

San Francisco, whose lifeblood is money.

Smell it on the gray-haired man

who wears a twenty-year-old blond like a Rolex,

the kind of woman who’d turn her back

if I said hello.

Still, traces of old San Francisco remain.

Plodding up Powell Street Laura Linney

smiles at me while gasping for breath.

San Francisco, beautiful dream on the verge of self-destruction

where prices are not just steep but obscene

where restaurant bills shout, “Suck my black dick!”

and rents sell your mother into prostitution.

San Francisco, an escape from corporate America

affordable only by the masters of corporate America.

San Francisco, I love you but

only the rich can find refuge here.

Theory of Meaning

Insight turns its back on the predictable

(the cop show endings and fast food flavors –

all chase scenes, convictions, and high fructose corn syrup).

It faces the hot wind of entropy

blowing from the infinite space of wild ideas,

where Wanda’s promiscuity rides a unicycle

and the federal deficit scales an electric fence

in a blue raincoat. One false step

and meaning dissolves into gibberish

and noise.

Is there an archipelago of meaning

each island surrounded by chaos

or does it lie in some massive continent?

Explorers go to sea in sloops and mystic caravels.

So many shipwrecked on city sidewalks

bumming change and arguing with imaginary rivals.

A few bringing gimmicks and gadgets

return to heroes welcomes.

The best

simply disappear from our horizons.

I imagine them, their bliss complete,

on some new shore of understanding

Sunday Night

The departing weekend

leaves a vague hollowness

like a mock chicken dinner

that strange concoction of gluten and MSG.

All my chores and obligations

completed.     Cleaning, shopping

the practices and workshops,

that never-ending poetry reading

all rhyme and no meaning,

and the clogged roads that raise

blood pressure while wasting

precious hours.

The alarm will ring at 6:00 AM

to synchronize me with the gigahertz cycle

of American business.

My emotions     malnourished

swollen-bellied infants

reaching for empty breasts

Vince Gilligan’s Island – an Alternate Breaking Bad Theme

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale.

A tale of a rich meth cook.

They found a spot upon his lung

That had a deadly look.

Walter White was a high-school-teaching man,

His body gravely ill.

His insurance was too cheap they say

To pay his doctor bills, to pay his doctor bills.

The chemo started getting rough.

His cookies he did toss.

If he could not bring in some cash.

His family would be lost. His household would be lost.

To pay for those big doctor fees he started making speed.

There’s Heisenberg

And Jesse too

The DEA and his wife

Gustavo Fring

That wheelchair guy and Skyler White

In this mass of greed.

 So Walt became a drug kingpin

With Hank Schrader on his tail.

He had to launder cash somehow

Or he would go to jail.

When Tuco tried to muscle in

It looked like Walt was done.

I don’t recall how Walt escaped

‘Cause it was season one. It was season one.

The bodies started piling up.

First Gabe, then Jane and Fring.

His catchphrase, “I’m the one who knocks,”

When Walter pulled the strings, when Walter pulled the strings.

Jesse started flipping out

And filled Walt’s home with gas.

Then Skyler took a kitchen knife,

Kicked Walt out on his ass.

I watched it every week, my friend.

The show ran quite a while.

A six-year run on AMC

Must make Vince Gilligan smile.