warm buttery maple-laden pancakes,

his gaze both inviting and downtrodden,

downtown condos and uptown bungalows

up and down the street, there's no resisting

there's nothing but spare-change in my

pockets, as he slowly reaches around me

frozen, chilled metallic haze around my ear

cut-off from everything, everyone in the

glow of the half-empty diner:

I sit in vinyl and I sit hands pressed against

cold porcelain and scratchy  white napkins:

there both excited to get and want

crispy bacon stained with syrup and burnt

potato chunks and a squashed buttery biscuit

Saturday Night San Francisco

Sides with the sparkling East Bay lights

Spaces a tempo and buried love notes

Sounds a silver whistle and solitude

Flows and ebbs leaded glass windows, plated

Flashing triple-X signs draw private views,

Face Familiar Faces with Faces Familiar, braced

Faints with a string-tied reminder for Sunday afternoon

take on me, take me

take me to the moon and

tack, to the twisted,

twisted carry-out diamonds

and cracker-jacks, twisted

twisted orange-handled scissors

tater-tot casserole

Ciao Mein Noodles

Macaroni and Cheese

#2 Meal

Pad Thai

Surprise In The Box

(you just made an ass out

of you and yourself)

i

r

e

g

r

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o

t

h

i

n

g

@

g

m

a

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.

c

o

m

this morning's dreams

remember themselves

an ear

pacing impatiently

changing time from

event to symbol

no worries alone, of

solo nights

rehearsing--no

worries, of being

naked not: as M. &

I danced to Saturday

night, radio: Kung-Fu

fighting--no worries,

my vision, for black-rimmed

spectacles

should, I even, try to (pretend

play) this song

headphones

to tender neon benedictions of

your body imaginary, beholden

fountain for fantasies, penniless

pellucid suitor to my profilei7

and everywhere I have trailed, lights up

was sure, he also followed paths beyond

on craigslist I found listed there--based

our Jingle Town warehouse reserves of

a classified stranger--he to me at lease.

in the kitchen, stationed each night by the window opened to the traffic of I-880

smoking Drum cigarettes he rolled while talking over $5.99

bottles of Bolla merlot breaking the evening news on our dot.com jobs

--and, hey did you see the latest episode on IceBox.com--

sketching out our predicaments, looking on top the counter in brackish agreements to

cleaning up the dishes piled, and plans for what would really make us happy, without

options, and so we drilled one another about our pasts laughing in common

puritan like domains of what really seemed so totally not SF for sure

good night John B--a bruised whisper discolored from across the loft

feeling him static neither to be like a brother or uncle

and not like that of a spouse, but of relations unfamiliar to the invisible solidiers

guarding the sweetest of embraces of which I've never felt, as solutions

the sleeping manuscripts dreaming in the background of Tivo lullabies

not me alone,

can gather your pieces

left over, years past

standing here (I'll

watch

over) this so very

romantic vision of all

our scraps pasted

together the edges, at

lapping brads and tacks