Sometimes, it’s easy.  You walk in the door

and it all falls out. Touch me

if you know what I’m talking about.

We have clean sheets.  You’ll be glad

in the morning. Slick and crisp,

like when you were a child

and your grandmother ironed them white.

This is my body. Reach out.  Here it is.

But not much longer.

~t.t.t.

Today I met the famous Mike Lipsey in San Rafael, California.

If you like his work, I want you to know he has two, maybe three, books available for purchase from Lost Coast Press

Here is his tumblr blog:  http://stoicmike.tumblr.com/

If you like his work you might want to check out http://ithoughtso.net/

Before meeting Mr. Lipsey, I lunched at Sol Food, a Puerto Rican restaurant [in downtown San Rafael] with the popular DJ Incrowd.

In the evening, I met Joe Asaro, owner of Dolores Corner, the only bar on San Francisco’s historic Dolores Street. I first met Joe, an intriguing man, and his beautiful wife Kelly, years ago on a ship rounding Cape Horn.

Questions about San Francisco?

                                                                                                       ?

The rooster’s morning song

wakes the dirt in my doorway

pulls sunshine through my window

and shits on my tile floor

like he owns this hovel and I

only visit from time to time.

~t.t.t.

The winds deter me.

They push sound around the corners

of this million dollar slice of city

they whoop and  moan songs of ocean

hitting land, slapping silly boxes built

by men, as if humans make no difference,

smacking this house, whipping my awareness

when I walk down Church Street

toward the trolley that wobbles in wind.

These winds will last longer

than humans will remember.

~t.t.t.

The Whole Foods woman, on 24th Street

between Church and Castro

young and pretty, wide as a hoop skirt,

says, with brown cleavage and wink

“You come see me again, okay?” and

I say, yes, of course, because red

lipstick fits her lips and I am old

and pretend that I am important

in her city life.

~t.t.t.

My gratitude, please take

my gratitude for the days you wore an orange sarong

and nothing else, for mixed drinks without umbrellas,

for pretending we had a future on Portuguese

shores, for reading my manuscript and laughing

in all the right places (including the kitchen

when I forgot sister’s name).

My gratitude,

please take my gratitude for saying my name

with such tenderness, for smiling as if we

were in a deep conspiracy, a revolution of love,

and for slipping quietly out the door

instead of saying goodbye in a crowded café.

~t.t.t.

She aches and her body is shrinking

curled in her morning bed of pain.

Maybe the passing day will awaken her

as it passes over her burning limbs,

maybe the sunshine will invade

the wars that storm inside her

battle the maladies, wet the fires

in her muscles, joints, and bones,

maybe I won’t be afraid of what

happens to her next,

maybe I will be strong enough

to carry her through.

~t.t.t.