 
When Publishers Stalked The Earth

Mel C. Thompson

Copyright © 2011 & 2018

To contact the author or find out the many ways you can help the ongoing efforts of all the authors in the Mel C. Thompson Publishing Company lineup, please use the contact information below:

Mel C. Thompson Publishing

3559 Mount Diablo Boulevard, #112

Lafayette, California 94549

melcthompson@yahoo.com

This book is dedicated to the late Bob White and the late Steve Parr. They were both promoters of live poetry shows in the 1990s, and they strove to provide the poets with the best venues to perform in. They promoted our work tirelessly and saw to it that we got paid for performing, a very rare thing in the poetry world. May their kindness and generosity always be remembered. This book is also dedicated to the late William Perkins, publisher, writer, teacher and friend, and to the late Dominique Lowell, beloved friend, poet and performer.

Formatting Note

While man of the poems in this work are in their original form, several of them appear as prose works. These particular pieces originally appeared in poetic form with each sentence sometimes being broken up into several lines. However, many people had previously complained that I was, in fact, naturally a prose writer and not really a poet. They further opined that what I was often doing was writing a series of aphorisms, or a list of observations, which would be more profitably composed in prose form. This evaluation of my work comes in handy as I commence to attempt to compile these works into an ebook. Only certain types of poetic line breaks work well in ebooks, whereas certain whole sentences usually seem more compatible with ebook text flow. Because the loss of poetic line breaks may change the effect of some works, some of the works may vary from their originally-published forms and certain editing liberties may be taken as I proceed to "translate" these poems into prose.

Table of Contents

Foreword: When Publishers Stalked The Earth

Notes On Richard Hack And Some Thoughts On The Cloud House

Got Lucky

On Their Respective Crosses

In Search Of Imperfection

In Praise Of The Unexamined Life

Until Your Marriage Resumes

The Serious People

The Open Reading

El Catedral Juarez

On The Road To Lubbock

Reentry Into The Office World

Middle Age

A New Defiance

Pride

The Night I Almost Became A Republican

Enough

Incense Offering

A Poem For Samantha

The Search For My Mother

The Olympic Spirit

Notes On William Perkins

Lyric For Guatama

Wack 'O' Lantern

Northwest Haiku

Notes On Alan Kaufman

My Cowardly Groveling Prayers And The Logic Behind Them

Notes On klipschutz

Things We Had Sex With

Poppin In The Foam

Non-Affirmation

The God Of Buck Mulligan

Latchkey Househusbands

National Anthem

Serious

Notes On Kathi Georges

A Related Historical Note

The Courteous Vampire

Notes On Vince Storti

Demerol

The Foster City Investigations

Notes On Emily Yau

The Dark Ocean

Notes On Walter Biller

Tent City

When We Live In Santa Fe

National Anthem

Notes On Neeli Cherkovski And Christopher Byck

There Once Was A Sparrow

A Micro-History Of A Pre-Punk Band

Speculative Profiles Of Judy And Sheena

Her Boyfriend In His Dreams

Notes On Marvin R. Hiemstra And Jannie Dresser

Formal Injunctions On The Worship Of Vicodin

Notes On Assorted Roving Publishers

Amy Makes Me Remember

Vampire House Problems

To Aliza (Who Found Love In Australia And Will Never Be The Same)

Steve Arntson's Home (The Dharma Yacht Club)

What If

Apostolic File # 4

Sanity

God Is Great

Excerpt #43: from File Clerk At Allianz

Second-To-Last Phone Call

Tennessee Valley Home

Dance

Nylon Sharks

Thunder

A State Of Readiness

Diary Of An Average Man

Foreword: When Publishers Stalked The Earth

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If I were to give my fifty-something definition of Heaven, I would say that it is a time and place, usually in our past, that seems like a Garden of Eden compared to our current conditions. We can only know that we used to be in heaven and cannot see heaven now. That is because human nature is striving, and striving can never know its current bliss, but can only, in repose, realize what bliss was. Heaven was very real, and now, decades later, we are sufficiently distant from it to have a clear view of it.

Like my previous book, "Living The Zine Life," this book has as its first goal to promote my rather shameless egotism. But it also shares a secondary goal, to educate the reader, through some biographical statements, and some samplings of poetry, about how it felt to live and write in the most electrifying stage of my life and the lives that were artistically entwined with mine. (However, heaven, as I defined it, has tendrils which reach into the present moment; and so while I do pine for what I call "the glory days," it must be pointed out, from time to time, that wondrous arms from that past octopus of literary bounty still extend forward to the present, making that literary octopus a time traveler too.) And finally, this project seeks to credit many heroes in my life for giving their life blood, life energy, and often every ounce of intangible spirit, to the cause of trying to build a cultural and literary world that would live on after them and perhaps bring about some perverse utopia, even in our own time.

Since those days many critics have filled my ears with their dull sermons aimed at discrediting what so many publishers I knew were trying to do. And still others worry incessantly that our message went out to too many people without the proper qualifications and without the proper injunctions necessary to ensure writers worked diligently enough. In short, a bunch of grumpy main-streamers are very worried that we underground creeps had way too much fun, got a bit too much glory and did not properly suffer to attain poetic precision and perfectionism. They are, in short, unhappy that we reaped too much undeserved ecstasy before chronic ill health, chronic madness or death claimed us. They really wished we had fretted along with them, hoping all along we would eventually succumb to their gospel of control-freaking literary classism. But, at last, we were recidivists, and no cure was ever found.

What made the prime of my life so wonderful was the fact that getting published, in the microcosm I existed in, happened organically, naturally and holistically, without all the forced guidelines one sees in the hideous document called Poet's Market and all such satanic documents like it. Few of my associates were busy with today's fawning workshop obsequiousness that, in the end, turns out too often to be a series of pyramid schemes and bribery rackets. (It would have been inconceivable to most of my early poetic friends to pay hundreds or thousands of dollars to win the approval of poets whose very essence was an almost infinite lack of life.) We sauntered around town, from reading to reading, and publishers came out of the woodwork, and not just underground zine publishers, but mainstream journal publishers, and newspaper publishers, and groups with real funding that printed thousands of copies per issue.

Out-of-town publishers pilgrimaged to our scene and recruited our works for printing in other parts of the world. Reporters showed up in droves and wrote about us, which resulted in more inquires which resulted in more publishing. I knew people who had been published all over the planet and had gotten far further than I ever did and never wrote a cover letter, never even glanced at publishers' guidelines and never went to writers' groups led by certain MFAs whose view of the world was sleep-inducing at best.

The few people on this planet who ever read my poem Heavy Slumming know what I mean by all of this. I am meaning to say flatly that I hate the workaholism that has devoured our world, and I am especially nauseated to see it in poets; and I'm triply bored to see a parade of poets orbiting around upper-middle-class, establishment, quasi-academic gatekeepers. And I am mortified that they are, en-masse, starting to tailor their writing in such a way as to not offend people who are put off by anything that minimizes the supremacy of the kind of leveled-down smugness that is sweeping its sunny-faced way through every segment of our American life. Alas, too many people have the same coaches now. Poetry risks becoming like pop music, a medium now so devoid of eccentricity and human diversity that seven or eight of the most famous pop singers look and sound identical. No, no! Long live weirdos! The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, and Simon & Garfunkel, were remarkably different from each other. But pop music now sounds like it's mass-produced in factories. God help us, but poetry is going that way too. We are ending up a nation of poets reading things like: "Tips for getting your poems published: Avoid self-indulgence. Avoid the pronoun 'I'. Keep your work brief. Try to include natural imagery," etc.

In conclusion, like my last book, I am using this book to note that I come from a time and place that was distinct. And one thing distinct about it was that they published psychos, quite readily and with abandon. And those madmen and crazy women did not have to come pleading for some ink to be splashed on a page in their honor. Rather, the artist and the publisher surged together toward some kind of dark light shining from multi-colored coal beneath another kind of earth. I come from a time and place where open mic readers could read a poem five pages long and everyone suffered through it, perhaps like a crucifixion, if necessary; and perhaps, if the light was right, the ordeal of the poem saved us. But this salvation lacked the glib certainty of born-again Christianity. Rather, it was a black and blue and gray salvation, with splotches of red, and only a little white thrown in.

What was so beautiful was the casualness of it all. You got published on the way to the supermarket. You got published when walking out of the bathroom of a nightclub. You got published while lying in bed half drunk and half strung out from the wrong combination of caffeine, booze, cigarettes and sex.

Regret was a language we did not speak. We did not hang our heads and fret like chastened, humbled people who tried to get back into the good graces of the gods or anyone else who thought they were something more than human.

Perhaps there is some small chance that a Heaven lies beyond this mortal coil, but even if it does not, I want the reader to know I lived a little heaven while still kicking around on this planet. It was a time when publishers stalked the Earth.

Notes On Richard Hack And Some Thoughts On The Cloud House

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Richard Hack brought to our scene a will to form a higher-production value magazine with sharp editing and real heart. "Rico" and I got close because we were regulars during the twilight years of The Cloud House, which had become a boutique open mic for folks with a certain kind of experimental sensibility.

There were seven or eight of us regulars there: Me, Richard (Rico), Kush (the legendary archivist, venue host and videographer of all things beat and post-beat), a shy and quirky young poet named Matthew Rogers (who later moved to a college neighborhood in Ann Arbor, Michigan), Gabriel Levicky (a lanky, charming, Eastern European cab driver who sported a bold, blue beret), Heddy, (Kush's girlfriend), and, from time to time, Michael McClure, (who I later published back when I ran Blue Beetle Press).

McClure had been world famous for decades and was a friend of Kush's. And since the Cloud House had become a very intimate group, word never got out that on some nights you could see McClure for free and up close just by walking up to Kush's place. What was funny was, when in a small group, McClure, a rather larger than life figure with some real star-power, revealed himself to be a truly humble and gentle person. In fact, he just wanted to come and listen to our close-knit group, but I always cajoled him into reading for the six or seven of us.

This microcosm bred much closeness, and eventually me and Rico were drawn together and became lifelong friends. He explained what he was trying to do with his magazine Oxygen. He had been, in an earlier incarnation, an editor of a prestigious journal in Chicago and carried himself in a dignified and professional way. However, he also had the street in his blood and could not be dragged into the turgid conventionalism of the main-stream journals. He struck out on his own and produced a fine product that promoted our scene, and did so with a proud and earnest zeal. Oxygen lasted for many years and created a sense of solidity and security for our genre.

Richard was, and remains, a deeply spiritual person who has respect for all religions and lifestyles, and yet remains in touch with his Jewish roots. He cares deeply for his culture and for the traditions of his forefathers. There were few things more rewarding than going up to Rico's tenth floor apartment overlooking downtown and talking about spiritual matters at length. His vast erudition and generous soul made him a fountain of wisdom and compassion.

It goes without saying that Richard was and is a liberal politically. But he is by no means a knee-jerk liberal. He is one of the rare people who holds each belief system accountable for being ultimately practical and non-corrupt. He was never afraid to criticize the left when it got lost in hippie incompetence and never hesitated to condemn the right for it's mad greed and mind-numbing short-sightedness. He remains a stolid enemy of fundamentalism in all its forms.

Richard, above all, is a loyal and supportive friend, who, countless times, rose to the call of friendship and did anything and everything he could to console and help me during my seemingly endless rounds of physical maladies and psychiatric traumas. I remain proud to count this publisher as a close friend and a fantastic example of what it is to be fully human.

(I would also like to take a moment to remember "Jedi Jim" who moved to Homer, Alaska, where he passed away some years later. He was an outlier who came to the Cloud House intermittently. I can still picture him and his generous enthusiasm and friendliness. Rico got word of Jedi Jim's passing and let me know, as he knew I valued and remembered almost everyone who showed up in that "underground poetry bunker.")

Works by Mel C. Thompson published in "Oxygen"

Got Lucky

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Did I get lucky this week?

Yes, I was lucky that Ann rebuffed my advances, because I would have stayed with her for years, silently enduring her binge drinking and gluttony.

Yes, I was lucky that Susan left me for Fred, because Fred doesn't know that Susan will dump him when he can't service her fourteen times weekly.

Yes, I was lucky that Holly never called, because Holly will spend every dime of hers, and then every dime of yours, and still be unhappy.

Yes, I was lucky that Betty never returned, because Betty really didn't want to work, and hoped someone else would finance all her dreams.

Yes, I was lucky that Mary left town, because Mary will correct every sentence you utter and tell you to speak more quietly in public.

Yes, I was lucky that Laura found someone else, because Laura is so repressed that she could only bring a life of oppressively quiet desperation and anxiety.

Yes, I was lucky that Corrina was all booked up, because Corrina dresses very sexy and talks dirty, but would actually prefer not to touch you once she's got you.

Yes, I was lucky that Louise stopped coming around, because Louise really can't stand closeness and will double in size if you honestly start to love her.

Yes, I was lucky this week. May all men have such good fortune. Loneliness is not the worst of fates.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 19, 1999.

On Their Respective Crosses

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My God, my God, I know why You have forsaken me. It is because I could not love You if You were only kind, because in good times I am incapable of remembering You. The act of love, however tender, is always tinged with violence.

My God, my God, You will kill with the same maternal joy that causes You to give birth. Only when You come to destroy us, do we reconsider our vain lives. Endless life, for us, would have no meaning. Only our eventual death makes us precious.

Some You will overtake with barbaric torture, and some with madness. Others You will dispatch quickly, brutally, with the skill of a butcher. Would we love this life if You acted otherwise? There is no evidence this is so.

Your eyes search the countryside and each city district for smugness and complacency and order. You raise Your hatchet to strike. We die calling Your name.

Everywhere flowers are blooming.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 19, 1999.

In Search Of Imperfection

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I am looking for flawed beauty, small lumps, intermittent scarring, inexplicable blotches, faces beyond making over.

This is where love must dwell.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 19, 1999.

In Praise Of The Unexamined Life

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Insight is the enemy. We must abandon our studies.

In this very physical life, truth is a form of welfare.

Failed projects and broken hearts are sent to the Philosophy Department.

Honesty itself is a sickness in a society of healthy cheaters.

Religion without hypocrisy would spiral toward bankruptcy.

Who am I to stop stealing when a vibrant economy depends on it?

What could possibly be the point of befriending spouses and lovers?

Why interfere with God's plan? Why disrupt the feeding chain?

I say, "Let the wars rage." It's not my world anyway.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 19, 1999.

Until Your Marriage Resumes

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I only want to fit in that thin space between your heartbeat and your airline tickets.

Perhaps you have five minutes pressed over decades where beggars seeking mercy may stare into your face.

In the absence of honest men, my profile stands out, an awkward, anxious silhouette, servile and afraid.

I may not move you, but I do dishes and kisses and tend to practical matters: the use of tongues and such.

Some fates dictate passing only to the borders where love can be enjoyed, but never lost in tragedy.

There are no Roman villas, no green Irish hills, only a poet clutching his soaked pillow at daybreak.

Appears in Oxygen, Number 19, 1999.

The Serious People

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They were the serious people, serious about theater, serious about literature, serious about politics, serious about journalism.

When one of them talked to you, they did so in a calm, mature and rational tone, seeming to want to convey something about their matter-of-fact adultness. It was not cool to get excited, unless, of course, you were criticizing someone, especially if the person being criticized was currently poor, ugly and unpopular. It was uncool to get excited about criticizing anyone who was a rich or famous or sexy. Criticizing well-connected or well-funded people was viewed as a deathly-serious matter.

The serious people went to modern art galleries, not to be happy about art, not to grow from art, but just to be serious about art. You must remember how very serious art is.

The serious people were too restrained to actually love things. They were informed and well-educated about things, knew which things were on the cutting edge. But to love a thing? That was too schmaltzy for people with serious concerns.

They were the serious people. They smoked seriously, drank cappuccino seriously and snorted cocaine seriously.

They pretended to be open to bisexuality. In fact, they were mostly asexual. It was an unspoken understanding that asexuality was the wave of the future. After all, wasn't all that seduction and thrusting and grunting a bit much? Wasn't it really rather passé script-writing? They thought so.

The serious people weren't very thrilled about God either. Any serious person could tell you God hadn't thought up anything original to say in years. Sure, He heaved out a few planets long ago, but they frankly believed God was resting on His laurels, propping Himself up on past performances.

And their children were social and cultural objects. As such, their every movement, their every word, had to be monitored closely for even the slightest tinge of racism or sexism. It was if the mere absence of bigotry could somehow substitute for nurturing and laughter.

Yes, it was clear that the serious people were committed to something, but no one ever found out what it was.

Apparently, it would have been too presumptuous to just come out and state a belief.

There is a serious person in the room with me now. They are staring ahead expressionlessly, taking long drags off a Clove cigarette, sometimes coldly smirking at a bank of video screens in this nearly-empty bar.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 19, 1999.

The Open Reading

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The open reading is the psychotherapy group no hospital had the courage to begin, the last place Satan can hide in Dan Quayle's universe.

The open reading is the last stronghold of free speech, the last fortress against Censorship. The fear of open readings in the South is the real reason Jesse Helms was reelected to the Senate.

The existence of the open reading is like the legalization of public masturbation, the decriminalization of heroin, or the conversion of Jerry Falwell to Secular Humanism.

The open reading is like the Pope getting stoned on acid or the Knesset convening in drag.

The open reading is proof to the world that if the Antichrist ran for President today, he would not lose the election due to lack of support, but only be cause he lacked campaign funding.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 19, 1999.

El Catedral Juarez

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I am the only Anglo in this architectural pastiche where a candle-lit shrine stands in honor of Judas Iscariot.

In this precarious barrio, they call him "The Patron Saint of Desperate Men," exemplar of man's dual nature, friend and betrayer of Christ.

Can you imagine Americans erecting a shrine to Judas?

Mexicans are better theologians.

A crowd of unemployed laborers parts before me, glaring in disbelief.

"Porqué está aquí el blanco?"

A savvy, English-speaking local concludes that I'm lost and directs me hastily to an erotic dance club.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 19, 1999.

On The Road To Lubbock

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Oil well grasshoppers weave on the golden meadow's cotton wind. The world drops off into bluffs, canyons and mustang horses ranging free.

Everybody's working seventy hours a week under Lone Star flags for checks of thin air.

The petro-billionaires don't smile. We are ordered to watch Trinity Broadcasting and to stop asking questions.

The soil is dark red, and so are the blood and grease that lubricate the highway dotted with serfs and barons.

Sweat brings the only precipitation.

Yes, the economy is booming, but for all the wrong reasons.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 19, 1999.

Reentry Into The Office World

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Some have given up their uniforms, others earnestly guard their futures, and I only pretend to work.

Couched behind this cubicle wall, using my desk as a wooden shell, I will write this poem in secret.

The files will alphabetize themselves while my keyboard types without me. Now we're working double time.

My hourly rate for miracles is indexed for inflation, based on the fluctuation of canned food prices.

Useless, I sit in awe as daydreams invade my "in" basket and I turn into a walking fish.

No one here has ever built anything or understood the concept of honest labor, though one person contemplated gardening.

Lawyers, paralegals, real-estate speculators, defense contractors, high-tech quacks — the whole pyramid scheme is collapsing.

Having escaped these industries before, I now return in hot and cold colors, breaking back through the office world atmosphere.

Landing on a snow-enveloped hillside, my laptop computer steaming, I'm ready to push masses of paper into obscurity.

This is the endless throat that has become our second living room. This is our great regression to the odious and proverbial day job.

Here, belonging and not belonging are two serpents locked in a kiss, wanting to be part of something greater.

I do this instead of hunting. My tie is a feathered crest on top of my puffed-up head.

And if the spirit moves me, I'll write something about how I feel the pulse of the world pumping to the rhythm of adding machines and laser printers.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 13, 1995.

Middle Age

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The productivity phase is over. The second half is all spin control.

Failing to build a better mousetrap, I served as a clerk to inept designers.

Soon I'll enter the palace of the uninsured, toothless, old poets without pensions.

My bad economic decisions were fatal to my hopes for a graceful retreat.

I could not reconcile my writing with the inner child stockbroker.

Dreamed of a private cabin in New England. (Settled for a boarding house in Kentfield.)

Retiring with a box of scriptures, I'll pray for a Buddhist geriatric physician.

Looking at streets thronging with 20-year-olds, I wonder at how haggard they already are.

Middle age seems to keep coming sooner. The world . . . is aging, too.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 13, 1995.

A New Defiance

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Happiness not escalating to mania, sadness not plummeting to depression, hope not catering to delusion, fear not pandering to paranoia — this is what I've been praying for.

A cheerful and elegant old woman walking slowly with a golden retriever, an unmolested, unabused, brown-haired girl riding a bicycle down Ross Valley Road — these are now rebellious things, parts of a quieter revolution whose blossoming amidst the riot we may not live to see.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 13, 1995.

Pride

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Does pride have you clicking television channels all night, even though there's nothing on, because otherwise there would only be the sound of distant traffic in the predawn sky which would cause you to stare out of your bay windows thinking, "Why isn't anything moving?"

Does pride force you to theorize that you're over-qualified to work any of the jobs that are available to someone in your dignified position?

Would you panic if you had to put on one of those funny paper hats and serve people fast foods as your family looked on and said, "Didn't he seem to have such a bright future?"

Does pride make you drink and smoke yourself numb in order to avoid the inevitable fact that in order to get uncrazy you might have to become a Jesus freak or wind up in therapy for a couple decades?

Wouldn't you rather honestly be found dead from an overdose under a tree in Golden Gate Park than have to join some weird support group where everyone expects you to cry like a heel in public?

Does pride demand that you seek vengeance against all authority figures who dismiss your ignorance out of hand as any qualified leader would?

And would you rather get a gun and shoot people randomly to punish the whole world for its unfairness than face the fact that the system is fine and it's you that needs to change?

Does pride convince you to maintain an unusually strong interest in sports because you are unable to draw, paint, write, sing or act?

Is it as if you would have studied Philosophy, but the last pro football season was just too important to ignore?

Is it as if you were going to volunteer to help feed Somalian refugees, but you were just too concerned about Joe Montana's passing arm?

Does pride fool you into believing you'll assert yourself, like a liberated woman should, and start asking guys out for dates, when, in fact, you'll chicken out like you always do when face-to-face with the possibility of rejection?

Is pride the fountain of youth that is turning all your hairs gray?

Is pride the house of cards you are claiming is a fortress?

Is pride the courageous nobility that makes half of your answers lies?

Yes, pride is a 300-lb. wrestler who is twisting your arm and throwing you to the floor of the ring.

Pride is a fence for stolen stereos who calls himself an independent distributor of fine consumer products.

Pride is an emaciated madman standing at the corner of Larkin and Geary swearing with all his might that someday soon he's really gonna' kick some ass.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 3, 1992.

The Night I Almost Became A Republican

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That night I reflected on a Philosophy professor I knew who attended peace rallies and preached against Ronald Reagan's militarism. He fell in love with one of his students and murdered her husband so he could have to her to himself and was arrested immediately. I'm sure he's rotting in jail inventing reasons why Ronald Reagan got him into this mess.

That night I remembered a Palestinian I knew who wants to end the Israeli occupation and stop the violence in the West Bank and Gaza. He beats his girlfriend up so badly they have to buy special makeup to cover up the cuts and bruises he believes are signs of love. Also he is determined to hide from the police the name of his best friend who murdered a little girl. He's got rationalizations why his violence is different than the Israeli violence he opposes.

That night I was with my revolutionary friend who hates the rampant corruption in the U.S. Congress, but sees nothing corrupt about shoplifting whenever possible and drinking away loans from friends which will never, ever be paid back. He claims it will all be different after we get George Bush impeached. Then there will be no need to steal. But first, he insists, the Fascist conspiracy to take over our country must be stopped, otherwise his addictive shoplifting will continue.

That night I heard someone say it was no use getting a job until the whole economic system is purged of oligarchic elements. That person said he would not have any dealings with imperialists, except when it came to welfare checks. Apparently, he would accept welfare checks from any imperialist who was willing to mail them out.

That night I could hear you saying that if you ran the government, there would be freedom of speech. But have you checked with your friends lately, the ones who can never finish a sentence without you telling them to shut up as you continually correct their terminology?

That night I could hear you saying that if you ran the government, there would be no more violence. Is it possible that all the fights you get into, and all the property you vandalize, and all the shouting you do, is simply misunderstood by us? Perhaps you really are a peaceful person and we are just blinded to your gentleness? Perhaps your habit of punching holes in walls and kicking in doors is just a metaphor for a larger social message you are trying to convey through paradoxical means?

Later hat night my girlfriend and I were cuddling on the sofa, and it looked like I might finally get some romance going when she started into a long, hysterical tirade about how America is not a democracy and that nobody's vote should be allowed to count for anything because all Americans were brainwashed and shouldn't be allowed to vote until they were reeducated by a revolutionary command council that should be allowed to govern for a short time by decree so the last elements of sexism and racism could be purged from our midst completely. And then she began to ramble on and on and on about how those fuckers in Washington, D. C. were really making life hard for her these days and that she had to keep all her diaries in a safe deposit box at the bank because she really believed that important people in the FBI actually gave a rat's ass about what some harmless, unarmed, delusional woman from San Francisco, California, like herself, thought about them.

I never did become a Republican, in spite of all that went through my mind that night, but I must confess I was tempted to, if for no other reason than the lure of getting away from these hideous people who I was stuck in a political alliance with. At last the mystery of how the Republicans came to power was revealed to me. We had become puritanical squares just like the squares we were denouncing. Being powerless and poverty-stricken for too long had turned so many of us into simply awful people. Being oppressed is dangerous, not only because of the downside of having no cards to play in the poker game of life, but because of the terrible probability that one will become more authoritarian than the villains was one was hoping to overthrow.

When they ask me now if I'm a Democrat or a Republican, I say that I'm politically homeless.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 2, 1991.

Enough

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So what if you have no religion, are too proud to pray and too fidgety to meditate anymore. God understands. He made you a poet, and that is enough.

That's right, your poetry is mediocre, too dull to publish and generally disliked by all who hear it. But you are not here to be loved. You are here to be a poet, and that is enough.

Even now your works are being shifted from bookshelves into attics and from attics into trash cans. Your poems are on their way to Dachau to be tortured and murdered. But never give in to the enemy. As long as you keep writing poems, you have done your job and your duty.

Yeah, you smoke two packs a day and have a little drinking problem, totting teeth, clothes that don't fit, insomnia for life and nothing but death to look forward too. But, it's better to die young and have been a poet. Because when the sun explodes in a raging supernova, it will eat our planet in one bite and consign all our stacks of poetry to a fiery oblivion. There will be no one left to say, "There once were some poets around here. I knew them well."

Then the scroll of time and the scroll of space will be rolled up at last. And the minds and souls and bodies of writers will not be preserved in any form whatsoever. For God loved us far too much to keep us around forever. We were poets, and that was outstanding!

And as God stares into the endless expanse of His own face, He'll remember a line or two you said and shed tears of happiness for Himself and say, "I made them poets, and that is enough."

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 2, 1991.

Incense Offering

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Cathedral of tears, temple of pain, aanctuary of darkness, thou hast been my home, both a prison and a refuge. Herein did I lose all hope and faith in the world of form and sensation. Herein did I find the Dharma.

For I have held out my hand to others, but their touch did not bring peace, only sorrow. And I have slaved as a pawn only to find that no fortune fills my coffer. And so I spent my nights behind these walls in the clutches of poverty, my body aching for a love it has never known, and cannot now even faintly imagine.

Cathedral of tears, temple of pain, sanctuary of darkness — where else could I have gone? Who else would have me? For in this house all men are brought to their knees, and none are the souls of privilege dwelling here. Here, the message I received was quite simple.

For I have been as a hungry ghost searching the underworld for souls to possess. And I have hidden near tombs and abandoned houses, moaning at the moon and the cold winds.

You could not know anything about me, nor could you come to the halls I have haunted. The shame I shield from your eyes is too great for you to see. Yet the Blessed One is here already.

I hid from that great soul, fled the light of day, did not want to ask the question for fear of what the answer might be. Instead, I sought deeper dungeons and left cobwebs to grow around my feelings. The lies would continue to grow till I met the Pure Heart. For I had been deserted, marooned, left to die of emptiness in this shrine of oblivion. My very body seemed hollow, a thing that moved but had no life. How could I have been real? No one would want to touch me. No one could bear to look into my eyes.

Cathedral of despair, temple of denial, sanctuary of the abyss, ashram of fear, convent of terror, altar of doom — only thou hast been my wife, so bitter and tender, and therefore did I thee wed. For I had not yet heard the voice of He Who Calls.

In this den of thieves and hustlers, there was one who would steal nothing. In this chamber of vice and arrogance, there was one who would not use me. He took no pity, but would not patronize, collected no offerings, but merely wished to lead me to my own door.

Father of the Patriarchs, Bodhisattva of Compassion, Awakened One, I know the long road lies ahead, and I shall face trial by fire. So may I face the furnace laughing. May I bow to my executioner. May I salute my persecutors.

Cathedral of samsara, temple of delusion, sanctuary of blindness — it was the blackness of your stone walls which made the light so discernible when it finally shone through your high, vaulted windows. Your unwitting catacombs were the catalyst that brought me to the Buddha's feet.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 1, 1991.

A Poem For Samantha

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Imagine an old blurry Polaroid, a photograph of a pubescent boy and his ugly mutt. He's seated at a redwood picnic table, scowling at the hazy, smoggy morning, eating a large bowl of sugary cereal. The dog is crouched nervously beneath the boy's dangling legs, sheepishly wagging its tail, whimpering almost inaudibly.

The boy is wearing black, ankle-length boots and a ragged, tan corduroy jacket. His disheveled hair hangs in his face and milk is dripping down his chin. The mixed-breed mutt is begging for any food or attention available as the self-involved, teenage brat stares down with sneering contempt at the bitch's clumpy, matted coat.

The boy is unaware of his love for this ungroomed, undisciplined stray, but the dog loves this scrawny waif with all of its innocent canine heart. They spend their days alone and apart, combing dull housing tracts, searching. He finds gambling and fighting and vandalism, and lives only to cause trouble. The dog finds mates during heat,

becoming pregnant with six scraggly puppies.

The dog is hyperactive and untrainable, having been sloughed onto the child after is first owners tired of beating it. The boy is a common thief and vandal, already a promiscuous sexual deviant who will unquestioningly act on any dare.

Tragically, all six puppies drown in the family's dirty, unsupervised pool. He is never certain whether it was an accident or whether his impatient parents decided to get rid of them. The dog is killed by a careless driver and its body disposed of quickly. The boy is arrested for shoplifting and begins failing math and biology. He is too distracted to work well and later drifts futilely from job to job, hoping against hope to find a vocation.

The boy transforms into an elderly man and sees his childhood prankster companions grow indifferent and painfully serious. Sex and dating eventually exhaust him, and the possibility of commitment seems remote. As his autumn years grow shorter, his world amounts to less and less.

Sometimes he weeps to himself, because that distempered, flea-bitten mongrel was the only unconditional love he'd ever known. He feels guilty for having ignored its cries, for having left it days on end without care. Sometimes he prays to the dog's spirit in hopes he will someday be forgiven.

He keeps the Polaroid of them next to his bed for sixty years, until both the photograph and he are as faded and forgotten as the echo of her barking at his shadow in the summer.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 11, 1994.

The Search For My Mother

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Where do I come from? Who or what set in motion the exact sequence of events that led to my unlikely birth?

However grotesque or inhuman it may be to look upon the truth, I must see her dead eyes for myself and touch her cold, blue fingers.

My natural mother vanished in 1968, leaving no forwarding address. Eleven years later, we found her P.O. Box, but she stopped responding to our letters.

I've never forgotten her voice and the candy cigarettes she bought me. She liked Diana Ross and Petula Clark, but had a strong aversion to John Lennon.

We know Mom was Hungarian and lived mostly in L.A. County. She hadn't read Charles Darwin and did not believe in evolution.

Her family tree dates back to a tribe of neurotic chimps who used primitive tools and had large frontal lobes.

A telegram from Ulan Bator tells of a Mongolian truck mechanic who found fragments of her remains buried deep in the Gobi Desert.

They are searching for Mother on every continent and in every ocean, hoping to trace her veins and arteries back to where the eggs were made.

Armies of studious therapists are compiling boxes of files on orphaned sex addicts who still seek homes for their unloved inner children.

We all want to locate the nipple that contains the formula for milk, the recipe for building a living cell from scratch with common utensils.

Mother, why are you hiding your secrets? With just a little more information, we could replace you with technicians; but you answer only with your absence.

Alas, we play with test tubes, merely rearranging the life you gave, but unable to reproduce the spark itself that lit the fire in your belly.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 11, 1994.

The Olympic Spirit

For Katerina Witt and, oddly, klipschutz

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Shooting onto scratched ice like a ghost out of a cannon, she forgot about the gold medal and waltzed with white doves on her fair, outstretched arms.

She came to remember Sarajevo and the songs of that old city before the shelling started, before the cruel winter took the glory out of its great stadiums.

She had divorced the vanity of skating to win. She would not court the ring of her future career.

She whisked through the Arctic air, steel blades shimmering like Northern Lights. In her frozen water dance, Asgard still lived, unmoved by inevitable defeat, unaware of the judges' marks.

To forget one's own fate and honor, to perform in service of the unseen hand — that is the altar call of poets.

Appears in "Oxygen," Number 11, 1994.

Notes On William Perkins

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William Perkins was a great promoter on the San Francisco scene, and, till the time of his passing, he also remained a close friend. He ultimately moved to Japan and Hawaii where he founded English language schools and also took jobs as English school principal and English language instructor. He last lived in Honolulu with his wife and their daughter.

When William arrived on the scene as a promoter, he did so with a vision of bringing our type of underground, narrative, ordinary-language poetry into the main stream. His approach was to use his publication, "Howl," to interview the greats of the Beat Generation and to publish and discuss those upcoming poets he believed in.

Furthermore, Howl was not limited to publishing activities, but also engaged in promoting live events. These live "How" events wedded certain mainstream themes with Neo-Beat and Post-Beat performance poetry. Elements of goth culture, fetish culture, left-wing culture, and even aspects of occult cultures, were all brought into the mix. And, because William shared the American love of beautiful women, there was a continual celebration of the erotic side of life, both at Howl shows and in Howl magazine. Strippers, models and dancers were all on the scene. None of that met with any objection from me.

William Perkins, along with Stephen Parr and Bob White, succeeded, to some extent, in raising the profile of our literary scene to a level I had frankly never dreamed of. It was not unusual to actually be paid for performing in such shows, and not at all uncommon for ten-dollar door charges to be collected, something now reserved mostly for the most famous and most conformist of poets. This trio of promoters, along with the indefatigable Alan Kaufman, would combine to create a media echo chamber that lasted for years and brang visibility to relatively unheard-of underground poets and mini-publishers.

William could secure interviews with people like Allen Ginsberg and Michael McClure; and these items would be newsworthy enough to be on the cover of Howl. And, of course, all the time that William was mixing with the icons of the poetry world, he was never forgetting to associate our names with people many levels above us in the pecking order of the literary and media world. Hence, one could find one's self being interviewed or published by the SF Weekly or by the SF Guardian, after a few months of being publicized by folks like William Perkins, Steve Parr and Bob White.

Perkins was not without his critics, both inside and outside of the literary world, but I am inclined to pass it all off as some combination of snobbery, jealousy or the crypto-Puritanism which always manages to find its way into any artistic and political scene. Puritanism is a kind of mutating virus of the mind that creeps into every religious, commercial and social milieu. It is largely the product of smallness and pettiness of heart, born mostly of lust for control, which is, in most cases, the opposite of the harmless lust for sex.

In any case, William was fearless in the face of these conditions, and carried on and kept producing, planning and dreaming. He, and others like him, brought an electricity to our urban village that would have been unthinkable without them. Of course it's true that no such bubble of publicity could be maintained indefinitely, especially when a generally underground art form is involved; but I would say our best promoters created a solid five year bubble, which never really burst, but merely contracted with the passing of time. And it must be said that, even still, the reverberations of these promoters' work continues in my life to this day, and not many months go by that someone doesn't remember me and my friends by stumbling upon some artifact left behind from that very industrious and glamorous time.

Works by Mel C. Thompson published in "Howl"

Lyric For Gautama

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The icon raised one arm

And held his palm in place.

"Your worries are ended."

Ah, a moment of grace.

"Be without fear,"

Was his only command.

You now must accept

What you can't understand.

Be without fear

As your hearts turn to stone.

Be without fear

As you're swept from your homes.

The icon turned around

And now had four faces,

Sending out peace in all directions

And to all hidden places.

"Be without fear

Of living in shame.

You soon will lose all,

Even your name."

"Be without fear

Of the war marcher's drumming.

Be without fear,

Though a long winter's coming."

The icon grew eight arms

Where before were just two.

They all pointed outward.

The statue said, "You."

"Be without fear,

Though your life has no meaning.

You now must accept

That you've only been dreaming."

"Be without fear,

For your loved ones will leave you.

Stand by the truth,

But none will believe you."

"Be without fear,

For they will turn their backs.

And all that awaits you

Is the blade of an ax."

The icon started spinning

And laughing and leaping.

"The time to arise

Has come for those sleeping."

Your money is gone.

Your health has now failed.

And the children you raised

Are all crazy or in jail.

You woke up in a ditch

To begin the New Year.

Time is running out,

And you drank your last beer.

Your cries for mercy

Will fall on deaf ears.

There is only one hope:

"Be without fear."

Appears in "Howl," Volume 2, Number 2, September 1991.

Wack 'O' Lantern

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At the top of the brick stairway, under our high Victorian doorway, there sits an evil Jack 'O' Lantern, worthy to be hallowed, as he sits snickering and humming to himself in the twilight. He has a tongue made of flame and candle wax, and he spits on the shoes of passers by.

An angry man tried to kick him, but the thing bit half his foot off and took all the toes with it. A frustrated woman tried to pick him up and throw him in the trash can, but the candle suddenly popped out of the top of his head and caught the woman's hair on fire.

Now it is early December. The evil Jack 'O' Lantern still sits on our front porch, gurgling, grunting and laughing. I wish he were gone, but nobody in this building has the courage to do anything with this god-forsaken Wack 'O' Lantern.

Appears in "Howl," Volume 2, Number 2, October, 1991.

Northwest Haiku

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The First City

Brookings, Oregon.

Midnight. No plans, food or fun.

Submit to Allah!

Groggy

Coos Bay glows pre-dawn.

Sleeping ships, seaside motel.

Steel structures dreaming.

Vancouver

Canadian geese —

Great wings over skyscrapers.

Raven-eyed tribal chiefs.

Cambie

Scary! Been five days

Since I've seen a Satanist.

Frightening province.

Tinted Window

Faith, like unyielding

Trees with roots in granite rock,

Holding fast, prayerful.

Burns Lake

Route Sixteen Breakdown —

The voice of Dylan Thomas —

A lone, blue heron.

Union Station

Main Street Trolley car.

Her brown hair brushes my neck.

Tingle. I'm alive.

Mount Ranier Train

Countless trickling creeks

Feed into the massive sound

Where battle fleets rest.

British Columbia Meets You

An American.

How primitive. Very Quaint.

Are you leaving soon?

Appears in "Howl," Volume 4, Number 2.

Notes On Alan Kaufman

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I cannot overstate my debt to Alan Kaufman. He taught me the structures of the literary world. When I met him, I didn't know who the publishers were or who many of the great writers were. I did not understand how artists could assemble a press kit, and my cover letters were unconvincing. Needless to say, after a few years of knowing him, I could get almost any kind of publicity for almost any kind of artistic endeavor that crossed my mind.

Although I was already a fairly well-known underground publisher, and although I was already getting a rather unfair share of publicity, it all had been, up to that point, unfocused luck and haphazard chance. Alan taught me to get my message out in deliberate ways, and explained the contexts of how names are made in the literary world. He himself, while already having had book deals with major New York publishers, (and he continues to do so today), had a love of the underground, and loved to help raise its profile in the press.

We had many adventures and ventures together. And although he had many critics on the scene, and although my lack of ambition eventually caused us to drift apart, the truth remains that the small successes I've had have been largely due to his tutelage, however controversial his methods may have proved to be.

To give you an idea of how ignorant I was of the world I was already operating prominently in, I had no idea, when I met Alan, who Lawrence Ferlinghetti was, nor had I ever heard of Black Sparrow Press or New Directions. I could not have told you what the Norton Anthology was. Often times I was only learning who famous people were when I was actually being introduced to them by Alan Kaufman.

To give the reader an example of how far afield I was: One day I was casually walking through the Duboce Triangle for amusement when I happened upon a small, trendy-looking, upscale eatery. I looked inside, and there was Alan with his girlfriend and another woman who had a very distinct appearance. Not wanting to interfere, I nearly turned and walked away, when suddenly Alan waved me over. I gingerly approached the table, worried I was interrupting a rather pricey meal. Alan motioned for me to extend my hand, and as I shook hands with this unknown guest, he said, "Melvin, this is Kathy Acker." (He probably would not even remember this event, as such things were so common in his life back then, and probably still are.)

My cultural lack of awareness borders on hilarious. When I was a security guard at KMEL, the DJs used to love to bring famous people to my desk to joke around with me. Everyone was so casual and unassuming that I would not figure out until hours later the famous people I had been with or what their significance was. In any case, Alan always tried to keep me informed as to which way the cultural tides were turning. It goes without saying I could never keep up with his voracious reading and seemingly unlimited energy. But one thing is for sure, he helped me get far more recognition than my education and efforts seemed to deserve.

Although Alan is mostly published by large East Coast publishing houses, he did stop to create a small, underground book series of his own called "Wordland," which was also a great live poetry venue as well. The poem that follows was published in one of those books which featured four poets each. Last I checked, that book was still for sale on Amazon.

Poem by Mel C. Thompson published in "Wordland"

My Cowardly Groveling Prayers And The Logic Behind Them

A Comparative Psychological Study

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She says there is no God and is so brave that she sees physical death as a positive and reasonable and final end for each human individual, which she neither fears or seeks to rationalize away. She says all religions and spiritual beliefs are for those with dull lives who cannot solve their problems in this world and are running from their own morality by imagining there are other worlds. Not surprisingly, she is perfectly beautiful, highly create, remarkably intelligent, charming, outgoing, young and optimistic, and thoroughly loved by everyone.

On the other hand, my existence has largely been a pitiful farce, mostly consisting of sundry and tedious, odd, underpaid, humiliating jobs, coupled with an academic life propped up mercifully by kindly professors who inflated my report cards with high grades, thereby masking my intellectual bankruptcy and diverting attention from my lack of real friends or passionate lovers. Predictably, I believe in God strongly, and am planning for a long and happy after-life following my quiet passing during a morphine-induced sleep.

She goes to her room at night. She doesn't need anything to help her relax or be simply and quietly content. When it gets late, she turns out the lights, lays down naked and simply falls asleep, feeling the sensual summer heat sink into her golden skin as she slumbers. She has nothing to pray about!

Contrastingly, I enter my studio apartment and feel alone, abandoned, afraid of being myself, unsure if I have ever loved or known myself in any meaningful way. I turn the radio to 103.7 for the yuppie elevator music that saved me from the emptiness of hearing no sounds, but I can't handle any songs with lyrics, because any dramatic message might upset my already-shaken and tenuous composure.

Next, I light some incense on my altar, needing to imagine it will call kind spirits to somehow save me from my wretchedness. Of course, deep breathing and Zazen bring some momentary relief, but finally I must turn on the television to be at least moderately anesthetized by 1:00AM. But soon the test patterns force me to realize there's no putting it off.

Firstly, I get in a tee-shirt and briefs because I'm too hung up to relax nude, then I start coughing and hacking, so I get up and get some cough syrup, and then my sinuses are clogged so I can't breathe, so I use some nasal spray, and then I have to piss six times, and then I fiddle with the pillows and clean out my ears and check my answering machine and my calendar. But when the distractions are ended, it is dark and quiet and strange.

"Dear God," I pray, "please don't let me have a painful death or become demented or end up with AIDS or Parkinson's, and please keep my rent from ever going up. And Lord, if there's a heaven, I hope I go there someday and have a wife who loves me and an affordable condominium and a career that pays well with a company that offers good health insurance."

These findings seemed to indicate that she, with her superior character and her ability to dispense with God and all silly notions of post-death reality, would be a far better person than I, except for one weakness in her psyche: Me.

Somehow she has fallen in love with me. Therefore, I assert that someone who feels a strong urge to bond spiritually with someone as utterly spineless as myself must need God far more than I do. So I have recommended sternly that she get a religion as quickly as possible.

And tonight, shen I offer up my cowardly, groveling prayers, I will mention her name to my Imaginary King.

Appears in "Wordland," 1992.

Notes On klipschutz

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klipschutz, (with a small "k"), is the pen name for the author, and one of my great teachers and promoters, Kurt Lipschutz, who, additionally, is the main lyricist for the pop musician Chuck Prophet. After Alan Kaufman and I drifted out of contact, Kurt came to play a larger and larger role in my life. In fact, to some degree, the sky was the limit in terms of how much he was willing to assist my ascent, if such a thing as ascent is even possible in poetry. The only thing that limited his aid was the fact that I, one day, in my typically sub-bi-polar way, said, "I am no longer a poet," and proceeded to nearly vanish from the poetry scene for a number of years.

In some sense, he took over where Alan left off, educating me, albeit in an almost completely different way, about the structure of the poetry world and the various details about the characters and publishers involved in it. Kurt was, and is, a strong advocate of iron-will discipline in poetic work, (something that, from the outset, would create a kind of odd-couple scenario). In fact, to the extent there were issues between klipschutz and I, one would have to say that the work ethic itself was the main one. The main difference being he had a work ethic and I happened not to. (I intend to take this deficiency in my design specifications up with my Creator as soon as He is available for questioning. Regarding this, klipschutz might typically note that the Individual in question appears not to have been available for questioning for about 2,000 years or so. Alas, another lapse in work ethic at the very highest levels of the Universe.)

Like Jonathan Hayes, mentioned in the previous book, klipschutz was an excellent judge of publishing compatibility. Of course he knew infinitely more publishers than I did anyway, and also he was happy to personally introduce me to many of them. (In any business, a personal introduction makes things way easier than a nearly-anonymous cold-call letter.) Many of my most prestigious credits can be attributed to his sage advice on where and when to send my work and in which form.

The most excellent of these introductions/recommendations was his directing me to WordWrights!, a high-quality production that had the almost unheard-of practice of paying $200 cash to the author they thought was the "best-of-issue." Astonishingly, I won that upon my first submission. klipschutz, it must be noted, chose the poems to be submitted and edited them carefully.

Additionally, it was also klipschutz who engineered another publishing credit that is generally of the sort that is out of my reach. He chose and edited the poem "Serious," and then got me to send it to the Chiron Review, something that, at the time, it might not even have occurred to me to do. As usual, klipschutz picked a winner.

klipschutz and I met the way many of my long-standing friends met, when a poetry event promoter, in this case Stephen Parr, thought we would make an amusing double feature. Of course this promoter was right, as were most promoters who found pairings for me in those early days. In this same way, Whitman McGowan and I performed together and then became lifelong friends, proceeding to perform countless shows together. Such fortunate meetings in my life are too numerous to list here, but I remain grateful for all of them.

In any case, it turned out that the thing promoters thought klipschutz and I had in common, (and they were right about this), was a dark sense of wry humor, (although it must be admitted my humor can drift toward outrightly zany at times).

Works by Mel C. Thompson published in "WordWrights!" and "Chiron Review"

Things We Had Sex With

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We had sex with:

petroleum jelly, saliva, facial creams, hand lotions, vaginal lubricants, women, men, luggage, college mates,

work mates, shoes, pillows, blankets, corn oil, strawberry jam, olive oil, lipstick, facial powder, pain relievers, rubbing alcohol.

We had sex with:

chocolate candy, peanut butter, cotton balls, cantaloupes, refrigerator doors, banana peels, oranges, pumpkins, zucchini, yellow squash, flashlights, broom handles, ice cubes, cigarette lighters, candles, freezer bags, margarine, books, strips of leather.

We had sex with:

guitar straps, panties, bras, laced clothing, table cloths, sinks, counter tops, toilet seats, jacuzzi jets, shower massagers, prostitutes, ropes, porno actresses, rubber hoses, dirt, letter openers, mud, silverware, sand, magazine pages, dildos, hand soap, rubber vaginas, blow-up dolls.

We had sex with:

hair shampoo, hair conditioner, rocks, plant leaves, tree sap, toilet paper, glass windows, percussion instruments, air blowers, vacuum cleaners, sponges, towels, bread products, socks, custard pudding, chicken gravy, thighs, breasts, arms, butts, hands, feet, mouths, vaginas, penises.

We had sex with:

scalp hair, pubic hair, microphones, couches, chairs, car seats, floor mats, douche bags, Q-Tips Swabs, pencils,

ink pens, whipped cream, cutlery, water-based paints, perfumes, bathroom tiles, hardwood floors.

We had sex with:

ear rings, phone directories, toothpaste, velour hats, vanilla yogurt, fur coats, pool filters, imaginary persons, The Holy Spirit, beautiful martyrs, manipulating assholes, libidinal saints, sexual avatars, fantastic bullshitters, and all of the wonderful people we have lost and kept forever.

And we grunted and we worked, and we raged and we struggled, and we pushed and we hoped, and we gambled and we risked, and we trembled and we sweated, and we hurt and we shared, and we cheated and we sinned, and we truly, truly, truly loved.

And we took and we took and we took, till we had given it all. And we gave and we gave and we gave, till we had nothing left. And we died, and we died, and we died, until our mortal bodies were lost.

And now we are superhighways, bearing the convoy of trucks whose payloads are filled to overflowing with all the nasty, little things we have yet to try.

Appears in "WordWrights!," Spring-Summer, 2002.

Poppin In The Foam

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Janet was a poet

who couldn't stop the bleedin,

took a Valium holiday

and never stopped sleepin.

She thought she had the world

until she died alone,

a bubble in the ocean

poppin in the foam.

The world's got a song

for every kind of pain

and a clean bed at the nuthouse

for all who will to fame.

I thought I was a star,

but I'm another unknown,

a bubble in the ocean

poppin in the foam.

William was a prophet

who never had a vision,

thought he was The Chosen

on his Xerox mission.

He's a copy of copy,

descendant of a clone,

a bubble in the ocean

poppin in the foam.

They call the brave lovers

and laugh as they leap;

"Two more honest lemmings

for the 'ol Grim Reap."

You ended up a Hamlet

in a twilight zone,

a bubble in the ocean

poppin in the foam.

You were the perfect sinner

who threw the first stone,

a bubble in the ocean

poppin in the foam.

Appears in "WordWrights!," Spring-Summer, 2002.

Non-Affirmation

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No diagnosis

No Treatment

No cure

No temples

No recovery

No workshops

No churches

No synagogues

No seminars

No repentance

No resolutions

No epiphanies

No forgiveness

No amends

No revelations

No therapy

No schemes

No scriptures

No lectures

No sobriety

No resumés

No marketing

No clarifications

No consultants

No meditation

No chanting

No affirmations

No prophets

No messiahs

No apologies

No diagnosis

No treatment

No cure.

Appears in "WordWrights!," Spring-Summer, 2002.

The God Of Buck Mulligan

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He is the God

Of the foul-mouthed drunk,

Of the graceful swan

And the stench-laden skunk.

Far does He go

To slaughter the babes

And heave their souls

To the wild, tossing waves.

He is the God

Of the Wandering Jew.

The whore on the corner —

He's her God too.

He nurtured the cobra,

Perfected its hiss,

Created "snot green"

And the pub-crawler's piss.

In the emerald hills,

His songs are all sad,

Nakedness good

And priests all bad.

He loves the lad Mulligan

Who curses Him well

And taunts the righteous

In their chaste, little hell.

He is the God

Of Dublin and Cork,

Of young ladies' asses

And plates full of pork.

Brahman draws close

As foam on the sea

To bless the braggart

Who loves to be free.

For He is the God

Of sausage and eggs,

Of eager round bellies

And orphans who beg.

The caskets are hauled

To the burial yard

With rhyming dead names

For the dissolute bard.

From the lighthouse it's seen

From whence we all came;

And can you tell us

"What's in a name?"

'Tis one and the same,

The forlorn and the gay;

The God of Buck Mulligan

Is asleep on the quay.

Appears in "WordWrights!," Spring-Summer, 2002.

Latchkey Househusbands

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If you leave them unattended, you're begging for trouble.

They're supposed to be cleaning and working on their art careers, but soon the t.v. clicks on and the Devil's workshop opens.

Male fantasies crowd the airwaves, enticing idle hands.

Erotic music videos, Latina dancers and documentaries of naked tribal women unnerve these homebound men

channel-surfing for sin.

They drink too much Earl Grey, burst outside to walk it off.

There are women on bicycles in spandex with legs pumping, sugar mamas with windblown hair blasting by in red convertibles.

Anything is possible.

These boys need supervision.

Appears in "WordWrights!," Spring-Summer, 2002.

National Anthem

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Sailboats grace New England harbors.

The President is fishing in Idaho.

I am making pancake batter.

The country is unified.

Appears in "WordWrights!," Spring-Summer, 2002.

Serious

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The way I worried about addictions, accused others of codependency, believed my soul was tainted, fretted over going senile, and wondered if I was sufficiently feminist, was just way too god-damned serious.

The way I scoured the Bible, converted to random religions, engaged in constant hand-wringing as I tried to transcend the world while berating fellow poets, was just way too god-damned serious.

The way I feared my lines might be too confessional, believed I had tuberculosis, and constantly second-guessed my muddled career choices, was just way too god-damned serious.

The way I struggled in business school, arduously defended my reputation, tried to prove I was not a slacker,

wondered if the Republicans were right, and feared I would lose my apartment, was just way too too god-damned serious.

The way I worried about Communism, railed against cultural conservatives, examined myself for traces of insincerity, sought to purify myself completely, and stared into the face of death itself, was just way, way too god-damned serious.

And so I have been ordered by the gods into a state of permanent semi-retirement wherein I am forbidden to traffic in effort or engage in rehabilitation. My sole responsibility is to be flippant. Good luck to all you long-suffering, diligent people.

Appears in "Chiron Review," Issue #70, Autumn 2002.

Notes On Kathi Georges

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Kathi Georges, when I first met her, was the host of one of my favorite open-mic venues in the early part of my spoken-word vocation, The Exit Café. She later became a friend, and I was a fan of the amazing plays she and her partner, Peter Carlaftes, would stage at their very own Marilyn Monroe Theater.

Our fates intersected in many ways around that early venue. Many of the people who frequented my favorite open-mic haunts, like the Paradise Lounge and Café Babar, were also drawn to the more intimate and less-publicized Exit Café, where they felt free to experiment and socialize in a less pressurized environment. Kathi's leadership style was casual, fun, friendly and lively; and so, oddly, it was here that a lot of alliances were cemented with people I'd met in other, more publicized venues, (although, of course, as the reader will see, I did bring a world of publicity, literally, to that venue, but that was by sheer chance).

It was at the Exit Café that a lot of folks had the time and space to get close to me and to work out an endless list of publishing and performing deals. And it was also there that the late Tony Vaughan introduced me to the wonderful and talented Amy Kashiwabara, the only soul generous enough to last over five years as my partner, (and one could only guess what a challenge that might be if one has read much of my work).

Kathi helped edit and publish many things, like the great zine, "The Fold," and also the finely-produced "Poetry From The Exit Café." These brought a new production value to our scene and helped ignite the desktop publishing revolution in poetry, which, in the slow-moving world of poetry, was still quite a novelty in the early 90s. (In fact, a lot of the early publicity I got was from being interviewed by the media who thought it was novel that I was an early Mac-using desktop publisher.) But Kathi, unlike myself, was a graphics production professional and helped take our whole scene to a new level.

A Related Historical Note

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Sadly, the Exit Café was sold, and the new owner changed its name to The Blue Monkey. We found we loved this slightly-altered version of our old venue almost as much, and so readings continued there, thanks to the kindness of the owners.

However, one day, the San Francisco police came in and shut the poetry reading down because they believed it violated the City's entertainment licensing law. In short, they were demanding the owner apply for, and pay for, an entertainment license before poetry could be read there. (These licenses were out-of-reach for the average café owner who was just managing to hold on as rents for business spaces were rising astronomically.) Of course, at the time the local entertainment permit ordinance was passed, no one thought too much about the implications this would have for the open-mic scene in the United States. The first consequence was that the owner simply told the poets they would have to read somewhere else.

Although I felt I was very much "in the loop," this bit of news never got to me. So, one day I left my apartment, which was only a mile away, and walked over with some poems to read in the open-mic. I was greeted by the owner who told me this odd bit of news about the closure of the reading and sent me on my way.

As I was walking home, an incredible rage grew inside me, and I vowed to myself that this would never stand. The lines formed in my head: "In the City which is the Mecca of the Beat Poets, poets are not allowed to read their poems in cafés! What would Allen Ginsberg think of this?" And so I proceeded to call two masters of publicity I knew, (and I had become a bit of a master at it myself by then), Alan Kaufman and Neeli Cherkovski.

The three of us began writing and calling dozens of media outlets protesting the situation. Within weeks an international media firestorm erupted, and we were being interviewed by the worldwide press. The phone rang off the hook for weeks. Finally, the City relented and modified the law so that poets could speak freely, not just in the political sense, but in the financial sense.

Poem by Mel C. Thompson published in "Poetry From The Exit Café"

The Courteous Vampire

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The moon was white-hot

And I emerged from my coffin

Ready to taste a sweet summer night,

Hungry for love and human flesh.

I turned into a juvenile bat

And fluttered off childishly hungry

In search of satiating breasts

And other divine juices.

This journey was not for blood.

I sought anonymous, unknown

Romance of unperceived tenderness,

The unconscious forces of nature.

Soaring from my chamber window,

I dashed into the darkness,

My heart beating with anticipation.

And I landed on your ledge.

Your voluptuous body lay naked.

I put my tiny mammalian frame

Through you slightly-cracked window

As the wind whisked past erect nipples.

Crawling over your tossed-aside sheets

And touching your radiant, creamy hips,

I could see you were sleeping deeply

And almost nothing could awake you.

I the midst of a dream you groaned

And rolled over flat on your back.

Such pouty, thick, honey lips.

Even then your sex was moistening.

Careful not to disturb you too much,

I crawled further and further up

Your imperceptibly quivering thighs

Toward the paradise that awaited.

Surrounded by the pungent odor

That meant the world to me,

I folded up my paper-thin wings

And curled up softly in your crotch.

I slept silently till dawn and then

Darted out before the sun rose,

Carrying with me the scent of lust

And a drop of heaven on my tongue.

Appears in "Poetry From The Exit Café," Volume 1, Number 1, Spring, 1992.

Notes On Vince Storti

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Vince Storti was the publisher of the great "North Coast Review." He sought to bring an exceptional editorial style and extremely professional production values to his magazine, a magazine that brought variety, charm, wit and prestige to our scene.

Vince was a real downtown San Franciscan who could always be found in what I call "the magic continuum," that preeminently-walkable, architecturally-diverse and culturally diverse, collection of streets that connects Lower Nob Hill, Union Square, Chinatown, North Beach and the Embarcadero.

Vince lived the café life for real. And if I walked "the magic continuum" on any given day, it was almost guaranteed that somewhere along the way, one would see Vince Storti. Like me, he had some rent-controlled apartment mishaps and was forced out of San Francisco. But for the years he was there, he was devoted to that town, and devoted to the writers, and passionate about what kind of literature and esthetic he wanted his magazine to project.

He was the sort of editor that commented on your work, wrote you letters, analyzed your work, let you know what he liked and didn't like, but not in a way that was high-handed, arrogant and imperious, (like so many of the editors one finds in "Poet's Market"). In short, he was the real deal, and he lived among us and with us, was a very human part of the artistic and physical landscape.

He had a very open mind and a wide emotional range which opened him up to all kinds of interesting experiments. One story I'll always remember: One day I had no poems to send him, but I wanted to contribute, and I knew his magazine, like most others, also needed visuals to mix in with the poetry and prose. At the time I had composed an instrumental jazz piano version of "God Save The Queen." (There is no time here to explain what on earth led me to do this, but suffice it to say I was very enthralled with this item and mailed it to him in sheet music form.) Amazingly, in the next issue, mixed in with the poetry and prose and art, was the piano score to my song. That was just like Vince. He just got it. He got what people were trying to do; and even if he himself could not publish it, he had a way of letting you know that he saw what you wanted to say and that he felt it with you.

Works by Mel C. Thompson published in "North Coast Literary Review"

Demerol

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The pickup truck and I

Collided and it was done

Add this to the long list

Of things I must recover from

The leg was torn apart

and broken in two spots

The muscles there were shredded

I might not ever walk

Shall we cut it off they said

Or let it wither to a stick

The skin is quickly dying

The infection's made him sick

At first they tried a cast

But it rotted with the flesh

So they held my limb together

With a monstrous steel pin mesh

But the pain would not relent

And it drove me slowly mad

It came down to narcotics

The strongest that they had

At first a little pinprick came

And a bliss I still recall

This was further out than heroin

They simply called it Demerol

Sex cannot compare

To the warmth inside the chest

Delivered by that sweet syringe

Every needle I did bless

Every day and every night

They massaged me with those pins

Till life became remorseless

And I glorified my sins

At the operation table

A nurse had a joke to share

We could cut your head off now

And you wouldn't really care

Demerol oh Demerol

I'm a needle-lusting whore

As you rush all through my veins

I seek fame and love no more

Demerol oh Demerol

For a short time I was saved

And I counted down the minutes

Till all life's fees were waived

But three or so days later

There came the bitter price

I became a simple junkie

And craved it day and night

In pools of sweat I waited

For a chance to get my kicks

I cared not for a crumb of food

And cried to get my fix

Then I built up tolerance

And couldn't catch a buzz

But begged for shots like clockwork

We all knew what it was

The doctor cut me off at last

To face a sea of craving

And there I saw a long long life

With nothing left worth saving

Demerol oh Demerol

I never had a mother

You seemed so earnest at the start

But betrayed me like the others

Demerol oh Demerol

I've spent decades clean and sober

But like the druggies on the street

My recovery's never over

Appears in "North Coast Literary Review," Issue Number 3, 2006.

The Foster City Investigations

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Laguna vista Park

Blooming iceplants roll out,

forming the island border.

This unguarded check point

is passable by foot-bridge.

Port Royal @ Jamaica

Someone's water skiing

five miles inland, past

reclusive intellectuals

reading the Rig Veda.

Cumberland @ Port Royal

The eternal whir

of bicycle tires

and roller blades.

A solid core of roses.

Polaris @ Beach Park

A terra-cotta rabbit

watches a sun dial.

Chimes tinkle softly.

Portfolios of bliss.

Arcturus Park - Part 1

Bottle-brush promenade

to a yellow plastic tunnel

and a miniature chain link

bridge to a shadow song.

Hydra @ Celestial

A bicyclist or two

may wink or stop,

smile or glower,

then pedal away.

Sea Spray Lane

Lagoon-view balcony

sports satellite dish.

Sea weeds sway in time.

Football scores flash.

Mariner's Island Boulevard @ Marina Vista

A fountain bursts

with youth and age.

Docks and pilings

bumping in time.

Harbortown Walkway

Athletic kayakers,

mellow canoers,

couples in skiffs

paddling to dinner.

Marina Islands Park

Master of the garden hose

forever spraying something down.

Surgeons of the charcoal pit

sparking this barbecue wind.

Bridgeport @ Armada

A cluster of sports bars,

a forest of video screens.

We are unassailable

in garrisons of fried food.

Shoreline Park

The dried clay pickleweed

crunches below my feet.

Parachutes are winging

through chaotic currents.

Little Coyote Point

The waters are stirring,

frothing with cloudy mud,

vague, yet unrelenting.

I remain uninformed.

Leo J. Ryan Memorial Park \- Part 1

The landscape of the soul:

a Zen/bonsai thing?

an alpine arrangement?

Vienna in Santa Clara?

Appears in "North Coast Literary Review," Issue Number 1, 2004.

Notes On Emily Yau

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Emily Yau was a very interesting figure in the early 90s scene in San Francisco. She was one of many visionaries passing through our scene who wanted to bring poetry to a wider audience, and her strategy for doing this was to create a publication that would bring together American and Asian poets, as well as poets from other cultures and ethnic backgrounds.

Her vehicle for attempting to gain this wider audience was to create a literary journal called "East And West Literary Quarterly," an ambitious literary fusion concept. And she also, like the other extremely enthusiastic promoters of that time, wanted the release of issues of their magazine to be associated with some large performance event with a big line-up of well-known local poets. Interspersed with these larger local names would be assorted young poets, Chinese poets and under-represented minorities.

Getting a call from her was always a stimulating event. Unlike many promoters, who are very busy and need to get down to the business of booking and scheduling, she laced each call with her whole vision of where literature was going, where she wanted to lead it, and all the plans she had for taking us there.

I had the pleasure of being in one of these issues of East And West Literary Quarterly. And I was also booked at a very large event where she had secured an auditorium at a local, now defunct, college. The event was not only full of performers and speakers, but had a large audience too. She had managed to fill this large room and get a very enthusiastic crowd. The event was capped off by African Americans doing some very energetic gospel singing.

Shortly after that event, I lost track of Emily Yau, (although I did put one of her poems in one of my publications). It also seemed that the East And West Literary Quarterly slipped from public view. (A recent web search seems to show the last issue being in 1992, not long after I was published.)

She had been a professor of literature in China and knew how to get funding and grants, so I presume she ended up somewhere doing scholarly work, teaching work or creative writing in some capacity. And though her intersection with our particular scene was short and brilliant, I'm grateful for her heroic efforts on our behalf.

Poem by Mel C. Thompson published in "East And West Literary Quarterly"

The Dark Ocean

Thanks to Tony for the psychoanalytic concept.

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He is swimming in a dark ocean

But the ocean is a whirlpool

And he is drowning fast

And you

You know that you are the life raft he will need

But he is so much heavier than the life raft

That you will both die

If he ever gets ahold of you

So you grab an oar

And begin beating him away from the boat

But he will not go under

The black water is tossing him towards you

Like a battering ram

And when he dives inside your craft

You decide to abandon ship

Rather than sink into his murky hell with him

And now he is shouting

As his huge body is splintering the planks

Of his newly-conquered vessel

And you are swimming in a dark ocean

Happier to drown on your own

Than to be pulled under

By a madman

Who will be sinking forever

And forever holding on

To the next ship

That passes in the night.

Appears in "East And West Literary Quarterly," Number 4, Winter, 1992.

Notes On Walter Biller

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Historian and book-lover Walter Biller, now known for his crusade to keep San Francisco library a repository of books instead of digital gadgetry, first came to my attention around 1993. His approach to local history was inclusive, expansive and perfectly blended with his interest in current events and political trends.

He conceived of, and produced, a magazine called The San Francisco Almanac. The magazine was a compelling combination of stories of local historical interest and cultural and literary features. It also announced local events with artistic and regional import. Unlike most folks bursting onto the magazine scene around me, he was able to secure plenty of advertising for a time and was thus able to fund his work well.

Biller cared deeply about the indigenous literary scene and had a fondness for poets and poetry. Like many other publishers at that time, not just poetry publishers, he stopped through the Paradise Lounge and the Café Babar and the other standard venues to catch the wave of that great early-90s scene. It was an exciting time because a lot of opportunities came people's way from sources outside the traditional poetry world.

After catching my act a few times, Walter approached me at some point and asked that I send him some work. He eventually published the work, and a sharp black and white graphic image of me. (His whole magazine was done in black and white, but in a way that made it look distinctive and elegant. He had a flair for laying out a page and catching people's eye.)

Like many of the publishers I've known, he first published me and then, liking my editorial bent, (I was just as well known for my publishing work as for my poetry back then), he brought me on as an assisting editor. I was, at that time, as well as running my own publishing operations, assistant editor, guest editor or consulting editor for many publications. I'm not sure how I juggled it all.

These were exciting opportunities as it was still very much the age of print; and working with The San Francisco Almanac, with its fine list of sponsors, large potential audience and seemingly broad appeal, felt like a unique opportunity. Unfortunately, the publication seemed to be fading by around 1995; and by that time my own involvement in poetry was faltering and I was living in Marin, struggling to find work up there and suffering many health reversals while trying to juggle my only real live-in relationship. During this complex time, I lost track of Walter, until a friend pointed out that he had indeed resurfaced.

By 1996 Biller was back in the news, trying to save San Francisco Library from ending up a mere bank of computer terminals and information servers. Biller had caught on to the fact that the new library design had far less room for books and was mostly an architectural phenomenon without much deep substance. The books, apparently, were in some storage area and perhaps on their way to some landfill. Walter was seen in many media outlets, sounding the alarm for the preservation of our literary heritage. This campaign to save the books made quite a splash, and articles from this conflict were still being printed as late as 2006.

Works by Mel C. Thompson published in "The San Francisco Almanac"

Tent City

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"Now Entering Tent City . . ."

All of life is a violation.

There is no privacy here.

We will pull your beating heart

right out of your steaming, warm chest

and poke our fingers into it

just to see what you're made of,

(probably the same as everyone else).

At one side of the camp we read,

"John Barleycorn,

Purveyors of Fine Whiskeys, Ales and Such."

Money disappears in this place

faster than a Mexican banker

will deny he ever met you.

I am seated between two men.

One is holding up his sleeping girlfriend

and the other works for a lawyer.

"My job," he says,

"is to make sure we don't accidentally

sue our own clients."

Now I am able to laugh again

as I nurse my dark beer

under a Bass advertisement

that says, "Why does man exist?"

"Now Leaving Tent City . . ."

But wait, there's a siren behind me.

Pulling over, I submit to the law.

"You're under arrest," he states in resignation.

"On what charges?" I demand.

Flexibly he replies,

"Oh, I don't know.

What would you like to be charged with?"

Is there really anything

that is beneath my dignity?

No, and I have never been

above contempt or shame in any way.

Tent City has always been my country.

A simple cot, a spoon,

a cup and a toothbrush —

these are my provisions.

Here, only drugs can kill my pain,

and only death can kill my drugs,

and only God can kill my death.

Roll up your sleeping bags.

It's time to go home.

Appears in "The San Francisco Almanac," Volume 5, Number 1/1, 1994.

When We Live In Santa Fe

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A feather with turquoise plumage,

a note folded over, a ceremonial hatchet,

a vow of love sealed by maroon

lipstick and a smear of golden chili pepper.

Your face is the ripe fruit of summer

and mine is the dusty tumbleweed and sage;

and together they form the crude picture:

desert spring cactus — high, silent, arid cliffs.

I try to live the impersonal life,

to go on forever, imitating stillness, solidity;

and you have rushed up from the seed

as though awakened by a cloud burst.

This soil you hold to your chest

is filled with silver and ancestor spirits

who observe you as you warm the bull's horns

with memorial fires for those feral forces.

I, the red coyote at the city's edge, (your back door),

accept your food, but will not be taken in —

snorting and placidly growling, "grrring" slowly as

you lightly scratch my nose and ears.

This is a truer hope: to hold the free,

reedy wolf in your heart, and watch it

slink out past the Indian Catholic churches

and creep under the train trestle to sleep.

But there is the quiet wisdom, the knowledge

that he sees your porch lantern miles away

as he straggles through the barren wastes

searching for scraps, remembering your almond eyes.

Appears in "The San Francisco Almanac," Volume 4, Number 1/9, 1993.

National Anthem

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Sailboats grace New England Harbors.

The President is fishing in Idaho.

I am making pancake batter.

The country is unified.

Appears in "The San Francisco Almanac," Volume 4, Number 1/9, 1993.

Notes On Neeli Cherkovski And Christopher Byck

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My ego had always been a bit wounded by the fact that I had not been included in a major anthology that featured almost everyone I knew. A few people helped make up for this sense of loss. One who needs to be mentioned is Alan Allen, publisher of the most wonderful "Poets from Hell anthology." (He republished my poem "The Ambulance," which I printed in "Living The Zine Life," though it's original publisher was Bullhorn.) I'll always be grateful for being included in that book. And my thanks also go out to Julia Vinograd and the late David Lerner who coedited it.

But my sense of inclusion was made complete when publisher Latif Harris funded the massive Beatitude, Golden Anniversary Edition, (1959-2009), a wild and encyclopedic 500-page tome. It was co-edited by Neeli Cherkovski.

I first met Neeli many years ago and enjoyed his poetry. He enjoyed being included in many of the local readings about town although he was by then quite well known for his seminal history of the beat generation, "Whitman's Wild Children." Neeli's encyclopedic knowledge of the history of poetry and his very close personal friendships with all of the greatest Beats puts him squarely at the crossroads between the old Beat vanguard and the Neo-Beats or Baby Beats, a category I imagine I fit rather snugly into. (Some people don't like being labeled. I myself am quite relaxed around labels and wear them and switch them and invent them at will. By all means, label me and I'll get high on that.)

Of course, being the man who wandered into the middle of a seething cauldron, a literary whirlwind, without knowing it, it is all but predictable that I had known Neeli for many years before having any clue as to the enormity of his contributions to the traditions which, I found out, after the fact, I was a part of, and was perhaps even living for.

When the Blue Monkey controversy was in full swing, Neeli, along with others previously mentioned, put the full force of his publicity talents and historical credibility into play; and this made all but inevitable the eventual victory we won in that regard. (For those not intimately familiar with the legislative battle that occurred surrounding the Blue Monkey, I regret that a full history of it would have to wait for another volume. I can only describe the battle here as one surrounding San Francisco's entertainment permit process and how it adversely affected poetry readings like the Blue Monkey, one of the more important underground poetry venues of its time.)

It must also be remembered that Neeli is a great poet in his own right and a gentle soul who I look up to. For the decades that I have seen him around San Francisco, I have always felt him emanate a warmth toward humanity, not unlike the sort one would imagine is the product of the bodhisattva vow, although Neeli would not need to take such a vow as the history of his literary activity and advocacy is sacred enough.

Most fortunately, my prose-poem "There Once Was A Sparrow" was selected for the anthology. At the time I submitted it, I was suffering from ennui and total disinterest in my poetic life, having only submitted it because someone said to me, "You should mail something in to the new anthology they're putting out." Little did I know, it was one of my better poems. (I am admittedly am poor judge of my own work, and, it seems, in the long run, other people are more right about everything about me than I am.)

This anthology ended up being read by small publishers around the country. And there was a gentleman by the name of Christopher Byck who had started a small broadside publishing operation he called 48th Street Press, named for the location of his former apartment in Philadelphia. After reading this volume, Byck took the unusual step of flying out to San Francisco, tracking down his favorite poets from the anthology and offering to publish them in broadsides. (In my case, I felt very lucky, as he published three, all based on my fictionalized version of the life of the punk band "The Ramones.")

Such stringing together of events and people has formed the backbone of my little career. If such a thing could be called luck, then indeed pure luck has been the major player in most of my good fortune, (my bad fortune, according to my detractors, is apparently all my own doing).

Poem by Mel C. Thompson published in "Beatitude," Golden Anniversary Edition, 1959-2009

There Once Was A Sparrow

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He timidly evaded many high school girls who loved his long, curly, brown hair and his reticent smile that burst forth unexpectedly.

He was rumored to be related to the poet Robert Frost whom his father resembled closely. It was surprising that neither became a poet.

He was nicknamed after his bird, an injured, orphaned sparrow chick who bonded with the quiet boy after he discovered it squealing on a sidewalk.

When the CB Radio craze came, he chose the handle "Sparrow." And we communicated nonstop through mystic, futuristic nights of childhood wonder.

We spent months wandering the suburban streets of Jesus Land, passing rows of churches of every denomination and holy processions of strip malls.

We lived in a magic circle of endless Summer nights filled with classic rock and unlimited friendships that poured out of neighborhood after neighborhood.

We expounded our theology and philosophized till dawn. These were the true womb days that seem to be permitted no more than once in a lifetime.

But I had the gloomy gift of fatalistic prophecy and saw the real estate boom coming to steal the sweetness of our indolent, blissful towns.

A dreadful seriousness engulfed the whole of my homeland. People swarmed in from all over the earth to be a part of the economic paradise.

As the population doubled, and doubled again, competition for jobs and housing became vicious, and the roads became the clogged arteries of Hell.

Survival, and nothing else, began to consume our every waking hour. Life was reduced to rent and mortgage.

Sparrow married a beautiful believer shortly after I left the church to pursue the railings of madmen, cult leaders and New Age weaklings.

The dawn of sex and parenting catapulted us into adulthood, and my chronic ailments took hold, warning me that the real world was no home for me.

This was the cosmic rending of the veil of the tabernacle of social context, the sundering of the tight web of meaning that forms the human core.

I was reduced to navigating the welfare system as he pounded through the decades of ever-growing obligations. All portals opened to merciless systems.

If I wasn't so damn honest, I'd have remained a Christian just to participate in their grand society. Man is a tribal animal, not built for integrity.

The Baptist gang moved on, some to bitter Atheism, I to quirky religious pluralism, and others to lonely doctrinalism.

Happiness remains a collection of thick, smoked-glass mirrors. The tentacles of these generous companionships were sprawled all over Southern California, at first gripping tightly, then gradually loosening and dissolving.

If I could find The Sparrow today, would he recognize my wizened face? Would the bird in him still sing? Would either of us recognize the song?

Appears in "Beatitude," Golden Anniversary Edition, 1959-2009.

Works by Mel C. Thompson published in "48th Street Press Broadside Series"

A Micro-History Of A Pre-Punk Band

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There was a Republican guitar god

pounding out the power chords,

an effeminate, ultra-liberal lead singer

with a stubborn case

of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

and a manic-energy bass player

who wrote songs from the heart

of the suicidal,

sub-nuclear nervous system.

These thrashing East Coasters

were unlikely, alienated fixtures,

rubbing elbows

with the Sex Pistols and The Clash

at the Roundhouse Club.

They were the crystallizing,

adrenaline moment,

the London-New York connection,

when the underground and the world

went hard-core together.

Appears in "48th Street Press Broadside Series," 2010, Excerpt from "Of Metal And Flesh," Dedicated to The Ramones.

Speculative Profiles Of Judy And Sheena

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They were like twins,

trying urban fashions together,

always sporting black leather in tandem,

shaving their heads

and wearing colored mohawks.

Judy smeared dark circles under her eyes

and Sheena donned a spiked dog collar.

Everyone presumed they were dominatrices,

but alas, they were seventeen and still virgins.

Although they puffed on cigarettes

and wore haggard expressions,

they were not jaded, not wounded.

Their parents would not let them

pierce their tongues

or get real tattoos.

Most nights they did all their homework.

In truth, they were applying for Princeton.

They would both marry rich men.

Appears in "48th Street Press Broadside Series," 2010, Excerpt from "Of Metal And Flesh," Dedicated to The Ramones.

Her Boyfriend In His Dreams

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There was a math geek

with no social prospects.

Only computer lab fellows

could relate to his analytic mind.

He tried to become goth,

but no one at the Death Guild

bought his act.

He trailed after Sheena

like a puppy dog

till she told him to buzz off.

There was nothing left to do

but start drinking early.

There were one too many

hits of acid,

one too many

grams of mushrooms.

He panicked, lost control.

Things got loud.

Police were summoned.

The straight jacked prevented

his getting to anything sharp.

Inside he is bleeding,

but there's nowhere

for the blood to go.

The padded walls

absorbed all his screams.

Appears in "48th Street Press Broadside Series," 2010, Excerpt from "Of Metal And Flesh," Dedicated to The Ramones.

Notes On Marvin R. Hiemstra And Jannie Dresser

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The title of this book, "When Publishers Stalked The Earth," is a bit inconsiderate, in the sense that it rather arrogantly presupposed that the 90s were the golden renaissance era of the San Francisco poetry scene. (And, of course, it self-servingly proclaims my era as the supreme one.) And thus, I owe an apology to everyone who has worked hard to keep the poetry scene going since then. The fact that I owe an apology does not necessarily mean I will render one, but it is worth noting that I owe it. In any case, I must backpedal to this extent, that I must admit that San Francisco, even when in an era of alleged decline, is still one of the most generous places on earth for a poet to be. And furthermore, publishers and editors from that so-called golden era are still to be found, albeit in far fewer numbers; and they still make life easier for poets here than almost any place else on the planet. And hence, I fast forward to the present moment to talk about a very heroic publication and a couple of people working for it.

The publication is The Bay Area Poets Seasonal Review, and the publisher is Jannie Dresser who tirelessly attends countless readings, not only in San Francisco and Berkeley, but also in far flung corners of Contra Costa County where I currently live, (in the heavenly hamlet of Lafayette). She has been on the scene for quite a while, but, in my myopia, I only just became aware of all the work she has been doing, getting events listed, publicizing poets she believes in and publishing poems she admires.

I would also like to add some notes about a very special person working for this publication, the Editor-in-Chief, Marvin R. Hiemstra. I have only recently become educated as to the depth of his involvement with multiple poetry scenes, not only here, but also on the East Coast of the United States and in Europe. And I would like to relay a few of my recent experiences with this gentleman's gentleman.

From time to time I still make it in to the City, and it seems that I am often found attending Kit Kennedy's Gallery Café series on Russian Hill. She seems to pick features that I either know well, or like a lot, or both. And thus, out of loyalty to a poet, or because I am an actual fan of a poet's work, I find myself there a few times a year.

Now the scene at the Gallery Café tends toward a more professional style of poetry, more disciplined, less confessional, more politically correct. In short, there are not too many filthy, rambling, promiscuous, San Francisco gutter-ranters like myself, though they do seem to genuinely appreciate it when I read in the open mic. There are many promoters and publishers who show up at this venue, and they are often amused by lively performances, but they are not often interested in promoting or publishing my particular brand of work. But, for every rule, there are exceptions.

One time I got up and read the poem that will follow this short article, "Formal Injunctions On The Worship Of Vicodin," and the crowd went wild. I was extremely pleased and everyone had a rollicking, grand time with the piece. Later, I was approached by Marvin Hiemstra and asked to send him a copy of that work, which I did. I was very pleased to find it published in the next issue of The Bay Area Poets Seasonal Review, done with a tasteful graphic next to it showing a pharmacist's mortar and pestle and a smattering of pills. After the issue came out, instead of receiving the usual single contributor's copy, I was generously issues several copies to distribute among people interested in my work. This was all followed by a couple of great evenings where I and other poets got to go out to dinner with Marvin and chat over the whole state of poetic affairs in local and international scenes. Marvin is not only a publisher and very accomplished performer and writer, but a real friend to poetry and poets.

I must end this article by relating a story about an evening I'll never forget. Marvin had been given a feature, not long after he published me, at the Nefeli Café in the hills above Berkeley. I'd not seen Marvin do a feature, and so I made a point of not missing this one. He had written me an email implying that I would be pleased because he would be announcing something or other about various poets, which would include something nice about me. This made the event all the more intriguing. (As an egotist, I cannot resist rushing to any location where my name is to be mentioned publicly.)

When Marvin took the stage, instead of performing a long string of his own poems, he selflessly, and quite masterfully, used his entire feature time to recite excerpts from all his favorite poems over the last year from his magazine. His feature was a beautiful singing of the styles and concepts he admired from so many of the poets he knew and promoted. Not only was this a great act of charity, as far as I was concerned, but the feature was a total gas, since he had the empathy to practically take on the persona of the authors he was reading from. The audience laughed and smiled and just plain had a blast.

Poem by Mel C. Thompson published in "Bay Area Poets Seasonal Review," Spring-Summer, 2010, Volume 5, Number 3

Formal Injunctions On The Worship Of Vicodin

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I know there are a few people in the room who never understood Vicodin's plan for their lives and have not asked The Lord Vicodin into their hearts. Could I please have a show of hands?

Very good. I hope you will respond to the altar call later. I also know some of you have walked with Vicodin for many years but have now slipped away and are lukewarm in your love of narcotics. Again, a show of hands?

Very good. Tonight you will have a chance to rededicate your hearts to sedatives and grow more intoxicated every day. Now, as you know, there are many who preach false doctrines to lead the believers astray.

Beware of extensive warning labels prattling on about addiction. These, as well as so-called "concerned family members," are simply so many voices of the Devil, trying to lure you away from the truth of the One Prescription Path.

Oh yes, and then there are the nagging employers and friends who claim to have your best interests in mind. But remember, the road to salvation is narrow and worldly people are hardened to our pure gospel.

And then there are the self-styled "religious people" who all seem to do good and die young and never get high or laid anyway. They'll try to paint some picture of a far away heaven in another life.

But we alone offer paradise in this very incarnation. We'll have none of this endless doctrine of karma and rebirth and painstaking yoga, meditation, prayer and visualization. It's all just a distraction from the bliss we know right here.

Now, I want you all to reach into your purses, jackets and backpacks and pull out those little plastic bottles, uncork them, oh so gently, and receive the light, the warm reassurance your parents never gave you.

Appears in "Bay Area Poets Seasonal Review," Spring-Summer, 2010, Volume 5, Number 3.

Notes On Assorted Roving Publishers

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This book only involves publishers and publications that I came across in my journeys around San Francisco. It does not even include many of the wider Bay Area publications that covered the literary landscape from San Jose to Santa Rosa. The number of those publications that advanced our cause were almost beyond number. And since I was often the last to know what the heck was going on and who was who, I would like to list a few old publications, and one newer one, in San Francisco that I got into because friends of the publishers met me in the street or at a reading and said, "You should send your poems to these people. I'll bet they'll like your work."

In such a world, notoriety, intimate levels of local popularity, and even national and international fame, for some, for better or for worse, were had by just wandering about and sending things where they were told to by whoever happened to tell them to send something somewhere. Such a system sure beats the heck out of the endless research involved these days just to find publishers who aren't balkanized into some rigid demographic or bound up in some stylistic dogma.

Two fantastic oldies were the great Liberty Hill Review and Poetry at the 33, both tastefully edited and quite sharp-looking. And a more recent publication, fantastically produced in full-color regalia, is the Faithful Fools anthology series, which came, the time I was published in it, with an impressive book party with multiple photographers and also lots of free food for hungry poets to eat.

When I first started making the scene, poetry promoters, and the venues they operated out of, used to grant headlining poets a tiny fee, and in some venues a glass of wine or coffee might also be included, and still other venues might even toss in a main course for dinner. Then the tiny payments were done away with, then the meals were nixed, then the free wine was history, then, at last, even the free cups of coffee for the featured readers were snatched away. And now publishers and promoters, far from paying poets, actually charge them reading fees for submitting to publications and entry fees to open mics. Now it is not unusual for promoters and publishers to gather hundreds or thousands of dollars for their events or publications, then pay everyone involved in the enterprise but the poets. Almost every event is a "bring your own booze" event, and $5 per glass is charged for a sip of wine from a bottle that itself might not have cost much more than $5. All this is a long way of saying: Hats off to the Faithful Fools for at least providing food and beverages for poets, and for the homeless too.

Saints still walk among us, although, it must be noted, they are, in droves, fleeing San Francisco against their will, a town that now touts the lofty moral value of working two or three jobs to pay rent, thus precluding all possibility of a real artistic or spiritual existence. Note: It's actually true that I have had friends move to Texas and Idaho and extremely conservative Republican places because they were the only places with low enough rent to make being an artist possible. Under such economic conditions and realities, not a single liberal politician I know of in San Francisco has challenged the City's hypocrisy as it gleefully watches the artists, the mentally ill and the poor get chased into economic exile. You didn't leave your heart in San Francisco, because San Francisco is a heartless place now. The Bay Area has simply lost the moral high ground it once held. It's a castle full of techno-millionaires who've adeptly used identity politics to cover over the fact that they will not lift a finger to save the lives of their own people.

*

Interestingly, in the golden age, as it were, The Bay Guardian used to send a staffer around to the larger readings for the purpose of finding poems to publish in what was a very large main-stream publication. I was thrilled when they did a page-length version of my piece, "What If." Such literary outlets seem to be closing up by the score, replace, so to speak, by an ocean of additional high-end-foodie joints where the rich simply cannot get enough of celebrating their own selves and their own awesomeness in a solipsistic orgy of self-congratulatory mutual admiration.

One cannot thank enough the great staff of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, a large, newsprint-style publication that was at one time distributed widely throughout the corners of the major intersections throughout the City. I think it is still in business and still circulated at larger outlets, but one does not see it everywhere like one used to. Their editors were poets too and could be at one moment at the open mic and at the other moment soliciting poems from writers they were curious about. They usually managed to get really nice bookstores to throw their publication parties in. One issue I was in, in the very early nineties, shows a drawing on the cover of the then-aspiring Dorianne Laux, then a local, now a national poetry star.

*

San Francisco old-timers recall, in what now seems like an idyllic age of the print media, a time when small newspapers could be viable for many years; and before every inch of space had to be used for advertising, poets found their way into local newsprint almost everywhere. One such shining oldie was the great Tenderloin Times. A friend of mind who knew most of the players in the Tenderloin closely said to me, "You know they publish poems too." And thus did I find my poetry in at least a couple of editions. And these smaller newspapers had a wide distribution and could be found all over downtown. It was quite a thrill for a young poet to send a poem in to a downtown newspaper and find it on every other news stand in his part of town days later.

*

The early nineties saw the rise of many talented and ambitious and creative, broad-minded women publishers who sought to integrate poetry with wider literature and mainstream culture in general. A couple stand out in my life: The founder of Cups was great to us locals. Anyone who was a big part of the Exit Café scene will remember Cups. (The Exit Café scene was a scene that, in spite of its humble appearance, spawned so much energy, and brought together so much unique talent and so many wild personalities, that the repercussions of the goings on at that place and time are still being felt in the literary world.) The founder of Cups was Camille M. Stupar who went out of her way to include the poets in most everything she did; and furthermore, she took risks by publishing poems that would be, by today's standards, very controversial across from ads for very conventional products and services.

Many of us who struggled, and still struggle, for legitimacy will be forever grateful for a pair of women publishers who scoured the West Coast for talent. Pam McCully and Kathryn Morrison managed to operate out of two venues, Los Angeles and San Francisco, and they did so with an ease of manner and a friendly style that will not be forgotten. They produced a first-rate journal that had an unusual amount of "legitimate" funding and wider circulation than most of the publications I was allowed into. For many of us with insecurities as to our place in the poetry world, these publishers helped create a real sense of self-esteem when the world of "Journals" seemed a hostile one.

*

I would be remiss if I did not thank dumb luck itself for some of the good times in those early years. Among the following will be a poem that was published simply because I went to a Buddhist Church that was connected to the Headquarters of an international Buddhist sect. Being accidentally so close to that institutional core allowed me to get published in many ways quite easily and with little fuss.

Amazingly, even my guard company, which was an extremely large, national company, had a journal of its own, and it too would include poetry sent in by security guards. Such a thing now would seem almost psychedelic to contemplate, given how conservative, and how dedicated to censorship, both right leaning and left leaning corporations are now.

And lastly, I was friends with an art gallery owner and his assistant. One day when I went to visit them, I noticed that they had a full-size carousel horse there. It inspired me to write a children's poem about Carousel horses. Astoundingly, that art gallery owner helped me get it in the most important national magazine for gallery owners and hobbyists who have a passion for carousel horses.

It's hard to think of any area of my life where publishers were not practically milling about waiting to publish people. Of course, in this second incarnation of my career, I'm getting published a lot, but it's a labored effort; and so much of the magic has been taken out of the process, that I regard getting published as the most uninspired and drudgery-filled aspect of my writing life. I pray that a cultural sea change in this arena will come soon.

Works by Mel C. Thompson published by:

"Liberty Hill Review,"

"Poetry At The 33,"

"Lynx Eye,"

"The San Francisco Bay Guardian,"

"Cups,"

"Living In The Land Of The Dead,"

"Haight Ashbury Literary Journal,"

"The Tenderloin Times,"

"The Carousel News & Trader,"

"The Vigilant,"

and "The Wheel Of Dharma."

Amy Makes Me Remember . . .

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the optimistically bright hues

of the first color movies,

the crisp, undistorted tones

of garage bands playing surf music,

a sexy, young school teacher

who flirts with her older students,

going 105 miles an hour

on the 101 in a rental car,

riding motorcycles, carrying guns

and never regretting anything,

wandering a thousand Tijuana alleys

oblivious to the concept of fear,

driving across the breast of Los Angeles

to the end of Mulholland Drive

and being absorbed by a firmament,

(as though it were one's own face),

so tightly packed with blazing

objects of such mass and density

that no choice remains but to erase

one's personal history and start painting.

Appears in "Liberty Hill Poetry Review," Issue Number 5, Fall-Winter, 1996-1997.

Vampire House Problems

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The dawn is breaking.

You come home from a long, hard day of

Parasitic, low-life neck-sucking and

The neighborhood kids

Have spilled Pepsi in your casket.

Great.

Now there's ants

Crawling all over your coffin.

How in the world's a vampire to sleep?

You've got to get in and close the lid

Or risk being melted alive in the daylight.

But now ants are crawling on your nose,

Making you sneeze again and again.

Soon they've gotten in your tuxedo

And you're scratching like mad.

As the day wears on you fight the urge

To leap out of this torture chamber,

But it's noon and a vampire

Wouldn't last five minutes out there

In that bright, hot, springtime air.

So you just hang on till night comes.

Meanwhile the blasted pests

Are biting your precious vampire balls,

Sneaking into your armpits

And tickling you everywhere.

One thing you know for sure:

When the sun goes down tonight

Those little kids

Who spilled that Pepsi in your casket

Had better be prepared to die

A merciless death.

Appears in "Poetry At The 33," 1994.

To Aliza . . .

. . . Who Found Love In Australia And Will Never Be The Same

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Only after you gave yourself

and were betrayed by your God,

could you ever know irony

and the terror of ghosts.

And upon that altar you found

the sacrificial rite never ending.

The blood, which was never yours,

spills out freely into the world.

The first man is every man

who was every woman's lover

since Brahman split in two

and became you and I.

He is the one in Gethsemane

saying, "Let this cup pass from me,"

the one who took the bullet in Dallas

and keeps returning as someone else.

Rejoice! This slap on the bottom

is your new birth, harsh,

but bright and full of promise.

Who would recognize you now?

Your war rages in me also.

I am short of breath, and pain

wracks my torso, my heart

struggling to outlive this poem.

We labor under the weight

and knowledge of love's true cost.

And eggshell opens with a burst of lightening.

Appears in "Lynx Eye," Winter, 1999, Volume 6, Number 1.

Steve Arntson's Home

The Dharma Yacht Club

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He lives

in a windy parking lot

in a dilapidated Toyota station wagon

one block from the berthing ramps

and His Lordship's seafood.

He sleeps

within a canopy of mid-day sun,

shaded by a waterfront willow tree

under a constellation of kites

and low-flying aircraft.

He collapses

to the touch of a sea breeze

wafting into his cracked window

and to the sound of a tinny car radio

pulsing out monotone weather reports.

He rises

to the sunset across the rippled bay

and the patter of footsteps on the docks

where immigrant families fish

and the wealthy anchor their yachts.

The poems

come into his head like the charts

that instinct projects into the minds

of migratory birds heading North

above Highway 1.

Appears in "Lynx Eye," Fall, 1996, Volume 3, Number 4.

What If?

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Some nights you can't sleep

Because you're worried

That you said something wrong

To someone who is a jerk anyway,

Or that someone completely unimportant

May have misunderstood you slightly,

Or that maybe everyone

Always really hated you,

But was too nice to say so.

And you begin to twitch

Because it occurs to you

That maybe your friends and family

Are all faking that they like you,

That maybe they are all very relieved

When you finally go home,

And maybe the party

Doesn't even begin

Until you are gone for the night.

You toss and turn because,

"What if?"

Then suddenly you remember

To be afraid of the dark.

You become overwhelmed

Because you're afraid

Of not being able to sleep,

Which makes you afraid

Of being afraid.

And some thoughtful person tells you

That whatever you're afraid of

Will come true

Because all prophecies are self-fulfilling.

So you put pressure on yourself

To stop doing this weird thing,

But the pressure of trying to force

Yourself from thinking things

Makes it worse

To the point that

You get afraid of your own mind

Because you don't know

What it will do next.

This makes you hate yourself

For worrying all the time;

Because if the essence of your being

Is fear,

Then maybe you'd die or go crazy

If there was nothing

To have anxiety about,

Though death seems to be merely

The lesser of four million evils.

And during all of this,

You didn't notice yourself

Drifting off to sleep.

But you remember dreaming

That you showed up to your own wedding

Without any clothes on.

Appears in "The San Francisco Bay Guardian," December 19, 1990, Volume 25, Number 11.

Apostolic File # 4

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Our Savior left no instructions,

No forwarding address.

His number was disconnected.

Maybe he watches us or

Possibly plays shuffleboard instead,

Is elegantly sipping martinis.

Our lord resigned because

He told a racist joke and

Somebody recorded it.

The pressure is off now.

The job was too big.

He is in a recovery program.

Jesus was a stand-up comic

Before things got out of hand,

Before it became a political thing.

Now he lives in Florida,

Mostly lays low and has

Time to eat right and exercise.

Our Savior ducked out,

Another human who cracked,

Had needs of his own.

The crucifixion thing was

Pulled off by a stuntman

Some producer called in

Before the whole thing leaked out,

Before the Palestine Daily Tribune

Found out the real story.

He was gonna be a heavyweight,

Maybe run a big synagogue

Somewhere in Bethlehem or Nazareth.

Now our Lord is reduced

To buying a Christmas tree,

Cutting turkey and cooking stuffing.

I never expected much from Jesus,

Maybe some off-beat poetry,

Possibly a hug now and then.

Hopefully the wounds will heal,

People will start to miss him

And he'll come out of retirement.

Surely there's a network job for Him.

Don't you honestly think

He'd make a good talk-show host?

Appears in "Cups," Volume 2, Number 12, December, 1992.

Sanity

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Sanity bores me, but I feel obligated to try it, to try to understand the Laotians who pull up in their pick-up truck every day to collect cardboard from our trash which earns them twenty dollars per ton.

You ask if this is all there is when your life in show business excites you as much as asking, "Would you like fries with your hamburger, sir?" That's when reaching a goal, any goal, seems like watching two banana slugs race across Texas. The whole point is lost.

Sanity bores me, but it's one more thing to do, just to say you've been there, like saying, "Oh, sanity is no big deal. I was sane for a while, but it was just another dead-end job." I never believed those bumper stickers that say, "Sober n' Crazy."

Are we like: people leaping off 200-foot towers with only bungie cords wrapped around them? Lovers whose abdomens boil for one more glance at their betrothed? Daredevils speeding through red lights at 100 miles per hour just to win a drag race? Impulse financiers risking entire fortunes for some hot commodity? Not hardly, not even close. We're talking plain old sanity.

At 9:00 p.m. the lentils must be soaked so they'll be ready for tomorrow's lunch. At 9:10 p.m. white, long-sleeve shirts are ironed so they'll be ready for work in the morning. At 9:20 p.m. you return all phone calls quickly so you don't miss the McNeil-Lehrer News Hour. At 11:00pm p.m. you pull your sweatpants from the dryer so they'll be ready for your tennis match tomorrow night. At 12:30 a.m. you fall asleep while watching David Letterman do his monologue. You will get a total of 7 hours sleep, And that's completely reasonable. Things are working out the way they were supposed to, yet I feel doomed. My grandmother did only these sorts of things, till one day she fell asleep and never woke up. That's how the genetics works in our family. Dying is just like a really, really good nap. Sweet dreams, my little world.

I've told myself it's okay to slow down, as the gentle and shy cleaning woman pleasantly hands me my blazer. We're assuring ourselves that anonymity is something we're now mature enough to handle, as we take our leisurely walks to Cala Foods and Walgreens Drug Store.

You've convinced yourself to lay low and not try to change the world, as you haggle for a 50-cent discount

on some over-ripened avocados.

My doctor says I'm losing my hearing. Maybe I'm just tuning the world out for my own safety. Besides, maybe Sign Language would be interesting?

Anyway, about this sanity thing: It's nothing to worry about. You just need to have your pulse checked more often. And don't forget to use margarine instead of butter on your garlic toast tonight. And keep your greasy fingers off my brand-new T.V. Guide. Sanity is such a drag.

Appears in "Cups," Volume 2, Number 3, March, 1992.

God Is Great

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God is great,

Like the smoldering love

That is destroying us in pairs

Or the torrential summer rains

Flash flooding

Southwestern desert towns.

God is great,

As mighty as a fire

That will not be extinguished

Until it has eaten itself into oblivion,

More determined than a crocodile

Swallowing up

What is weak and unsteady.

God is great.

He is a fundamentalist,

Until I learn to love fundamentalists.

He is fear and shame,

Until I am not ashamed of fear,

Until shame

Is a child I nurture into wholeness.

God is great,

Wise enough to stop existing

When people need to believe in Him,

Clever enough to come back into existence

Just when people have learned

To live without Him.

He is a lover who can't stand flattery.

God is great,

Too intelligent to believe

There is a purpose or meaning to life,

Too honest to make up a reason

For the seventy years He gave me

To spend like the reflection

Of a shadow of an image.

God is great,

Because His friendship

Is better than eternal life.

His presence in your tormented drama

Is better than a ticket to Heaven.

His scriptwriting is superior to anyone's.

God is great,

More serene than San Felipe porch-sitters

Puffing their pipes in the twilight,

Watching the sprinkling tints

Of brown, gold and green

Fade into the flat and quiet salt water

Of the Sea of Cortez.

God is great,

Stronger than the malt liquor you use

To fight off your insomnia,

More eccentric than a Scientologist on acid

Trying to sell you a Dianetics book.

God's will not share the spotlight.

God is great,

Weirder than the whacked-out freaks

He has hired to be His translators,

More tolerant

Than any equal-opportunity employer.

You can be a thief who moonlights

In divine revelation.

God has no problem with that.

God is great,

So great it seems idiotic,

So majestic that it looks like cruelty,

So charming that is seems like an insult,

So unpredictable that it seems fully arbitrary,

So humorous that it appears to be a tragedy.

God is great,

Too great to care about

How I get my rocks off

Or what I pimp to make a dollar

Or what ingredients are in the foods I eat.

God is too great

For any of my religious nonsense.

Really,

God is great.

Appears in "Cups," Volume 1, Number 4, December, 1991.

Excerpt #43: from File Clerk At Allianz

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The file clerk as self-effacing existentialist

reading Camus alone in a corner on breaks.

He hasn't had a real date in several years.

The file clerk as guilt-ridden former Catholic

unable to masturbate due to subconscious guilt.

He failed his first class in human sexuality.

The file clerk as creepy libertarian with

a Ron Paul button on his lapel, eating whole

pizzas for dinner with six packs of soda.

The file clerk as former liberal-turned-

born-again-Christian who still smokes pot

and tries hard to convert UPS drivers.

The file clerk as would-be gospel singer

who can't carry a tune and whose car rattles

as thought it were dying of emphysema.

The file clerk as failed applicant for all

branches of the military and all police forces.

He is studying civil service exam books.

The file clerk as acne-ridden patriot

sporting a flag pin on his polyester lapel.

They haven't the heart to try to fire him.

The file clerk as pseudo-intellectual

and speed reader who remembers nothing.

He has just become an Amway distributor.

The file clerk as rabid conspiracy theorist

who frequents Philippine psychic surgeons.

Please keep the file clerk in your prayers.

Appears in "Living In The Land Of The Dead," Volume 3, Spring, 2009.

Second-To-Last Phone Call

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She can't see herself

Bursting outside the glass door,

Turning the night air laser orange

As the memory of me is lost

In digital oblivion, demagnetized.

She is now predictably disillusioned

By her overestimation of me,

As if it were my fault she

Couldn't perceive the silliness we savored.

She'd call laughing

And embarrassingly in love.

There is no way into conversation now.

Every road is blocked with curt sarcasm,

And any response looks like concession

Or leaves a wrong impression.

Maybe we have one phone call left.

Sometimes you see the truth exactly,

Until someone talks you out of it.

Trust usually means denying your own

Instincts in the name of growth.

But Kaiser calls innocence

A preexisting illness.

She reminds me of a female lion

Telling a zebra not to run away,

to have a little faith and open up.

Animals never do this!

Why are we expected to?

Appears in "Haight Ashbury Literary Journal," Volume 14, Number 1, 1995.

Tennessee Valley Home

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Their relationship was good, healthy,

And their breakup felt grounded, sturdy.

Clouds and wet, gray mists passed

Over the clear plexiglass roof.

Her absence brought a rich sadness,

A centered sort of Buddha belly strength.

Rain and hunks of blue and black air

Began pounding his home, dripping down.

Wrapping an Indian blanket around him,

He sipped some hot Bengal spice tea.

There was a slight shiver from the chill

As a hard-won tear squeezed out.

Sometimes it is not even grieving but

A recognition of the largeness of things,

The oddity of realizing that deep love

Can come a hundred times to one life,

And that a thousand great lovers

Can be buried in one small cemetery.

He always thought the masses outside were pretend,

Something put there to confound the smart people.

The rhythm of healing set in while somewhere

She laughed and pulled someone to bed.

"No," he thought. "The crowds are real!"

As breath pulled in and out of his lungs.

The other man was just discovering her world.

This is where time comes from.

Appears in "Haight Ashbury Literary Journal," Volume 12, Number 1, 1993.

Dance

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Let the colors mix and run.

Mind is matter. (Soul is cotton candy.)

Death, a mere fingernail scratch.

Let time turn and twist.

For growing old is great. (Life is long.)

The darkness is strange,

But it is not wrong.

In the end, (as now),

We will be alone, but not lonely.

We face death

With God,

With Sky,

With Earth.

(No fear.)

Strokes on the canvas

Brushing all to life. (Let go.)

Dance with contrast,

Beaming, brilliant, bursting.

No life is in vain,

As no color in the spectrum is unwanted.

(I give you all and ask nothing.)

For this is the life of God we are living.

Dance!

Appears in "The Tenderloin Times," Volume 15, Number 6, June/July, 1991.

Nylon Sharks

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Nylon sharks

Swim slowly past my submarine window.

I wish I could know them,

But after all,

They are only sewn-together animals

With a little stuffing inside.

Nylon sharks —

They come in so many colors:

Pink, blue, green and yellow.

How can they even see

When their eyes are made of plastic buttons?

Cellophane guppies.

You can see right through them.

They scoot through the water,

Accomplishing nothing,

Except the constant breeding of babies,

Which is mighty tricky

If you're only made of a thin sheet of plastic.

Nylon sharks and cellophane guppies —

It seems so unrealistic.

But who am I to criticize?

I've been living on Play-Doh steaks for a year now.

Appears in "The Tenderloin Times," Volume 15, Number 4, April, 1991.

Thunder

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Somewhere — a painted pony

Is dancing like the fates

Before the palace gates.

Inside — a boy-prince waits

To ride his carousel

Past September's lonely summers.

How could the craftsmen ever know

That in a flash of light

Horses' wood legs come to life?

And in the darkly-shadowed night

The boy stole away

On a steed that he called "Thunder."

When his mother came to look

The child could not be found

For he was on the circus grounds.

His horse leaping up and down

As the music played,

He laughed with joy and wonder.

When the silver coins ran out,

The horse stopped going 'round.

The boy dismounted, head held down.

Even saddened by the clowns,

He wandered home in tears,

Heart all torn asunder.

But the king and queen were wise

And knew what should be done.

Calling royal carvers in at once,

They ordered a pony for their son.

And under that year's Christmas tree

Was another steed called "Thunder."

Appears in "The Carousel News & Trader," Volume 7, Number 5, May, 1991.

A State Of Readiness

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21:25 hours, swing shift.

Summer twilight

clings to the branches

over San Rafael.

Security Officer Thompson

on duty, patrolling,

looking between cars

below steep, golden hills.

Parking lot, north end.

A songbird, two inches tall

draws in a full breath,

bellows to emerging stars.

Singing three notes only,

it fills the dark, purple sky.

Alert, I stop, observe

and understand my job.

It was a detail

in the vast landscape,

but details are everything

in our profession.

Remaining aware, I feel

the music surround me.

A miniature songbird —

the Jupiter Symphony.

Appears in "The Vigilant," Volume 25, Number 10, August, 1996.

Diary Of An Average Man

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Blessed with a slow mind

and a rash temper,

quick to speak

without wisdom or forethought.

Blessed with a common fate,

free of accomplishment

and the chains of importance,

beholden to no weighty greatness.

Blessed with tentative health,

not crippled or wounded,

but suffering inconclusively,

complainingly, without heroics.

Blessed with a marginal income

and no suitable post,

wrestling with destiny,

praying for undeserved bounty.

Blessed with basic greed,

filled with ordinary lust,

a stranger to humility,

clinging to blowing sand.

A perfect vessel

For Amida's grace.

Appears in "The Wheel Of Dharma," Volume 24, Issue 6, June, 1997.

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