The Poetry Marathon

When I think of what “perfection” means to me, it’s always the same image;

A circle of dough, cooked just enough for its crust to sing;

A layer of sauce, tart enough to be interesting, but mild enough not to burn;

A layer of cheese that flows between the crust walls as it should–but that few wizards outside of New York City seem to know how to manifest;

Pepperoni made from pork and beef, not “pork plus don’t ask”, scattered lovingly over the cheese blanket;

This is pizza;

It fills the belly and nourishes the soul;

Like love, when pizza is at the top of its game, there are few sweeter pleasures;

When it isn’t, there are few greater disappointments;

But tonight my thoughts are not on philosophy, but the matter at and in hand;

Mangia!

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Facing  the choice between a road that was easy and;

A road that was authentic;

And;

Not being able to walk both;

I

Chose the path of authenticity;

Because while difficult at times;

It at least would be;

Interesting,

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The highway rises up to greet me and my car;

Stuffed to its limits with the essentials-books, books and more books;

Things like a bed and utensils will come later;

Because;

I’m on the road for a new beginning;

Today;

Only my most precious mental furniture will accompany me as

I

enter

The Golden State

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I met Finnegan when I was four and he was cowering against the side of his shelter kennel;

His colleagues pranced, as if to say “Somebody, anybody, spring me from this joint!”

But Finnegan was as placid as  a monk contemplating the Dao;

It worked;

I told my Mom “If we don’t take him, nobody else will”;

And so we did;

I was too young to take care of him, so;

One night;

He broke his leash and ran into the Bayside night;

Ever since then, I’ve wondered if my weakness for sad sacks;

Is because;

I want Finnegan back.

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One thing I never expected when I began my gender transition ten years ago was seeing how it would be recorded on my face;

Skin that was once furry every hour now stays smooth for days;

Cheeks that were once thin and hawk-like have become soft and rounded;

Eyebrows that once almost grew together are now angled and clean;

But the biggest difference is further down;

When I smile now, the light comes from my lips and my eyes.

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Why is it that trying to write for five unforgiving minutes is the most effective way to clear one’s head of anything the reader might actually want to read?

When I try to write in stream of consciousness mode, I feel like I’m letting the reader into my head–and that my head is far too noisy a place to entertain guests;

Sit down right there and don’t mind the thundering train that passes by my mental window; which is my feeling of being overwhelmed at the mound of paper in my office that grows with the day;

Pay no attention to the plane flying overhead-that’s my worry about next week’s court appearance for the client who won’t pay their bill;

Earthquake? No, that’s just my stomach.  Haven’t eaten yet.  Too much to do;

So, how are you?

Why are you so quiet?

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To the ears of the supplicant and patron alike, the phrase “We need” may be the most painful to hear;

We need bread;

We need housing;

We need jobs;

We need hope;

But most importantly, we need change so that it no longer is necessary to ask for these things because they’ve already been given.

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Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue and Purple;

The Pride flag flutters exactly as a flag should on a San Francisco afternoon in June;

The fingers of each of its stripes caress the blue sky

It waves with the triumphant spirit of possibility which, for many of us, is the reason we came to San Francisco–and for nearly all of us, is the reason we stay;

But this particular flag overlooks Market Street;

To its right is the headquarters of Twitter and the tech workers who have flooded the City as part of the the tech boom of the “New” San Francisco;

To its left are a group of homeless men and women.  Three of them have lived on this patch of curb since I moved here in 2009.  They are as “Old” San Francisco as it gets;

The flag floats over the battle lines between these groups, between the privileged rich and the poor whose San Francisco dream has been reduced to sleeping on a piece of urine-soaked pavement;

But the flag calls us all to something better;

If any City can negotiate the conflicts of inequality, it is this one; which raised itself up from the ashes of a quake and fire unprecedented in American history;

The flag hopes;

And as a result, so do we

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Through the gate!

On the other side, lies sunlight;

On the other side, lies hope;

On the other side, lies freedom,

But to get there we must go

Through the Gate!

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You open the door with no inkling of what’s to come;

Today is the day I end it;

We had a fun run, but it’s over, don’t you see?

And this is going to be icky;

Because you won’t cooperate;

Sitting there with your green eyes;

Crying like a bitch;

Why can’t you just yell at me like I want you to do?

Then I could yell back, leave and slam the door;

It would be the easiest thing for both of us;

Instead, I have to sit here and listen to your weak shit as you blubber in my lap;

And while I hold you I have to look around the room;

I see the reminders of the times we fucked like beasts;

I see where you held me as I told you about the woman I loved who left with tears in my eyes;

And where, after I apologized taking up our  date with that story, you just smiled and said “This is the work”;

No, bitch, this is the work

Because now I have to leave.

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