Thank you, Mr. Scorsese

Hey, all my fellow depressives out there,

Got a movie recommendation I’d like to share.

If you’re in the hole, it’s something to see.

“The Last Waltz”, by Martin Scorsese.

Fell back in the hole after a dinner recently.

The kind you attend to see and been seen.

Truth be told, I’m better off in a diner.

Don’t know shit about make-up or interior designers.

The women there like a Sundance catalogue come alive.

Meanwhile, these shoes on my feet been going on five.

Got lost among the men outside, talking hedge funds.

If climbing the ladder don’t matter, what do I do with these rungs?

Cause that’s what I’m after: getting at something bearable.

Either I work on getting out of bed, or on what’s wearable.

Wanna be a baller, not this out-of-step broad,

But when I hit “Share”, I falter. End up a digital fraud.

These are some of the thoughts been eating at me,

Ever since I’ve started posting shit on IG.

If all the world’s a stage and some of us are players,

Than the rest of us are ushers, janitors, and valets.

Me, I sweep up the floor after the show,

I’m smoking a bowl in the parking lot, while they sit in third row.

My life like a bad game of pick-up-sticks,

Did everything good end in 1976?

Then this musical miracle---where have you been?

Pulled me out of the hell I was in.

Reminded me of this other-worldly guy: my M.D.

He can move rivers with words, just like Robbie.

And, then there’s Mr. K., sprung from another realm,

Wily. A fighter. Just like Levon Helm.

And I know a young lass, just gave away all her riches.

The camber of her shoulders, well, reminds me of Joni Mitchell.

Got a circle of knuckleheads with whom I trespass,

Like Danko, Manuel and Hudson, we’ve had some blasts.

Got another friend, J., she’s so pure and true.

In shadow, she’s that unassuming girl, Emmylou.

Then there’s this jackass I love, C. He’s so good to his daughter.

Been battling the sell-out demons. Softened to him listening to Muddy Waters.

So, maybe there is still some hope to be had.

Out among the losers and the dorks: the 2.0’s of The Band.

So, thank you, Mr. Scorsese, for giving me a hand.

You can’t know how much I needed that twirl around Winterland.

Congregants of the Sea

Dear congregants of the sea,


When did we cease coming in peace?


Was it when we grew our thumbs times two?


When did the separation begin between me and you?

"You hate me because I sleep with women."


"You hate me because you think I hate men."


"I hate you because of the color of your skin."


"I hate you because you are not my kin."

So, shall we begin again?


Crawling from the waters into our new species skin?


Let's erase all the boundaries this time.


Let's share an open fire and a bottle of wine.



Let's not take more than we need.


Let's not be the image of greed. 


Instead, let's flit from one flower to the next.


Let's collect string and build a giant nest.



Let's hatch our children from multi-colored eggs,


And watch them play while we rest our legs.


Let's sleep beneath the moon on soft beds of clay,


And dilly dally until the close of the day.



I'll bring the water. You bring the food


I'll rub your feet. You'll lift my mood.


Then, when the sun comes up, we'll do it all over again,


And begin at the beginning once again. 


What will we need just for today?


What will we need to keep the hunger at bay?


We'll take just that and nothing more,


And when night falls, we won't lock our doors.

Alexa: Roll Me a Spliff

So I said: Alexa, roll me a spliff.

That was last month. Haven't heard from her since.

Even added the two magic words: Please and thank you.

Totally optional, but didn't want to be rude.

Sometime later, I got the munchies;

wanted her to get me jalapenos, chips and cheese:

the gooey kind of nachos…real old school.

Instead she sent me pita bread and hummus from Whole Foods.

So I said to Cortana: meet me at Panchas, for some cold beers and a round of pool.

Told her I'd grab some sticks, feed the jukebox and save us a couple of stools.

I'd buy us some Crown, we'd clown around, let loose like a couple of fools.

But just like that cold-hearted, distant Alexa, Cortana ghosted me, too.

Finally, I asked Siri, if maybe she'd meet up with me, so we could go quench

our thirst.

Slowly make our way down to North Beach, that’s if we didn't get hit by a Google

bus first.

We'd start out at Vesuvio, then saunter over to Specs,

where we'd play cards, drink brown, and nearly get wrecked.

Then we'd check into La Boheme, and stay up all night,

goofing off, talking, and laughing about life.

But all Siri said was: "I'm sorry, I didn't understand that inquiry."

I tell ya, with friends like those, who needs enemies?

the secret’s out

[In 2006, author Rhonda Byrne wrote “The Secret”, a self-help book that sold thirty million copies]

Well, I fell for The Secret.

Fell for it hook, line and sinker.

Saw the author on Winfrey,

So I thought I should read it.

She was anointed by Oprah,

Just like Oprah did to Chopra:

One of those modern day gurus

Now swimming in Gucci.

Oh, you shoulda seen my vision board back then:

Snapshots of wealth from Vanity Fair clippings:

Dinners with Graydon, a couple of Basquiats,

Buckets of ostera consumed on Branson’s yacht.

I’d have lots fancy friends and darn fancy clothes,

And I’d buy all my loved ones big fancy homes.

Surely, they’d love me if I did all of that;

Helped them trade up from their Target door mats.

I’d wake up each day and plan an adventure,

And bring along a few friends just for good measure.

Their eyes would glaze over from all my success,

But I’d be so chill, further proving whose best.

Nearly worked myself to death to make those dreams come true,

Nearly broke my body and mind trying to impress you.

Wanted this life to matter, wanted so badly to be known,

Worked so hard I nearly ended up alone.

Nowadays I use a dry board and multi-colored markers

And draw silly shit like flowers and bright summer sparklers.

The day Koko died, I drew her, too,

Because someday I’d like my hands and eyes to speak love like that to you.

And I’ve drawn a portrait of true John Prine,

Because some day I’d like to master the Great Unwind:

The way he did, through cancer and the rest,

Still willing to put the limits of words to the test.

Still willing to relax into the rhythm and notes,

Just long enough for his heart to come in and fill in the holes.

prickly glou

In the Great By and By, Alan Watts

has passed

the True Master Sommelier Exam.

Level None.

“I’ve won,’’ he says laughing, receiving his certificate

only to watch it crumble into a powdery, ardent gust

of glittering, infinite stardust.

His fingers read the braille of the glassblower’s seam

encircling Methusalah’s deep, reaching punt.

She knows he’s in no rush, and so She tells him

stories. So many stories. None of them with endings.

All of them taking place nowhere.

His first customers are shy lovers

getting to know each other again

between lifetimes.

“What might please you just Now?”

Remembering themselves again only slowly,

and having momentarily forgotten Wine,

She returns to them an unearthing.

“Let’s see,” the woman says.

“I don’t know.”

The man adds, “Nor do I.”

“What shall we try?”

“In the Great By and By,

we are averse to giving advice.

It lacks a certain extravagance;

the tang of adventure.”

Alan takes the white cloth hanging over his forearm,

an elegant tool of his new trade,

and in a charade of intergalactic legerdemain,

waves it over Methusalah until only She remains:

no vessel for him to present.

Willingly, without so much as a word,

She descends, an iridescent, liquid bird,

into their hands, from which the pair drink.

He from hers. She from his.

“Thank you,” the lovers sing.

“And how might we pronounce your title, Captain?” the woman asks.

With much laughter, Alan throws his head back, saying:

Some. All. Yay.

zinfandel

you’re often invisible, like the night heron

is to the blue gill. like uncracked obsidian.

the first stirrings of temerity.

fresh air. i don’t care that you’re not famous.

anonymity might be the thing that tames us, in the end.

often invincible, through prohibition,

the whims of critics. the cool kids and their trends.

you’re persistently californian. deep-rooted. consistent.

like brian wilson’s falsetto. cypresses silhouetted by a mist.

the deer of mulholland drive.

saint’s alive, you’re blacker than night, too.

when a cold wind rises at your back, you turn to meet it,

an overture of sweetness. there is no season

you haven’t danced with. no hands you haven’t hardened.

no palms you haven’t read. tell me my fortune again, love,

and don’t forget that part about how, when we met,

it was a reunion of sorts. how you saw in me a greenness;

some echo of us inside that graft union.

fancy apes

the dsm-5 is a thesaurus

for a word we hold too dear.

it has nearly come to define us,

and that little word is Fear. 

a precursor to sweet, daunting death,

when did it stop being fight or flight? 

now we beat it back with every breath,

while saying: take my power, take my might. 

from this day forward, i shall worship birds from below,

who treasure every flower with hearts unbound,

who could never hate hydrangeas behind a window,

or curse the dangerous, cold hard ground.

syrah

baby, the moon is blurry,

and i am worried,

that i am too tired to drive.

so let’s pull over,

throw a blanket over the clover,

and turn off the headlights.

because i can never get enough of you.

even when we struggle,

and i wonder,

who are you, and

why do you feel a stranger to me?

even then, i won’t pretend to not need you.

you'll say something dear,

something i needed to hear,

and it will become clear again:

that you are my home.

a home i chose.

the best kind of home.

so, now, even when i long to be alone,

i wish you to never, ever be too far away.