a hollywood story, prose version

the childless wanderers meander down morning sidewalks in the impossibly polished city. a hint of urban renewal hangs in the air on this end of fairfax, once the jewish district, as in all cities a tumble down low rent district inhabited by hipsters looking to strike gold where only bronze has been lain underfoot by the gods. an unbelievably young and beautiful girl walks by at a glacier's pace, her arm providing support for an elderly man, a cane providing support on the opposite side of his body. i am almost moved to tears by this touching display, trembling beauty, a sharp contrast in generations that I somehow feel directly in the middle of, figuratively and in reality. the girl wears the uniform of the modern day urban upstart, complete with colors erratically splotched about that are only found in nature deep within tropical jungles. the garb and her sexually able figure suggest one-night stands, mixed drinks, and dj'ed 80s-themed dance parties. a vivacious urban flower saddled with a slow and staggering moth. i cannot help but to smile once they stumble past, this sweetheart of life's rodeo doing for her grandfather what he must've done for his grandmother back in poland or wherever. and i notice her legs and ass and how they imply "fuck me now." my mind immediately recognizes the contradiction and recoils.

(bollocks. these women walk around in floral aromas and colors evoking the sexuality of life and pollenation. one of my favorite creatures of the wild is the hummingbird: sprightly, non-earthbound, territorial, ritualistically aggressive in mating. in some skewed way the hummingbird is nature's symbol of unbridles sexuality, a phallic beak that penetrates every soft and yielding flower to spread life. i'll be the hummingbird, you be the flower, let us make life, take life, create life, and spread life.)

an elderly vagrant pushes her metal cart south down fairfax. probably a leftover from doing movie extra work or daytime television. hell, for all i know she was one of Johnny Mathis' backup singers in her halcyon days. being a bit scruffed-up looking myself, maybe with a hint of urban Buddhadom, she seems comfortable seeking my help. Henry Miller said if you are ever in a pinch go to the poor for help because the wealthy will not even look in your direction. this may be the impulse she acts upon, especially since her facade suggests many a year pushing her metal cart along cracked streets, and she has adapted the faculties necessary for survival. i have no change, but i do have the feeling we are of the same order: the seeker; unfortunately no one got to her in her youth and convinced her to flee to the mountains or desert and she's spent most of her life sleeping on pavement with flourescence burning her cerebrum all through the night, every night. i find a dollar, hand it to her, she says in response "god bless." "god bless." a favorite phrase of mine, a universal code of appreciation, one not an atheist or agnostic could dare to take away because even the daringest nonbeliever knows it is the most touching sign of thanks and goodwill known to man.

the banished immortal

endlessly wandering
from east to west
the banished immortal
fills a bag with regrets
and throws it over shoulder
well behind
the mind
far behind
whence he left

(T'ang Dynasty poet Li Po, also known as " the banished immortal")

haiku (a newfound form)

(recently borrowed Jack Kerouac's Book of Haikus from my local library; I found in the plaintive wording and imagery of his purely Americanized haiku something grand and elating, just like his prose possesses for me; thus spawned a new endeavor, though I see that I've been writing in this way for a long time, just now finding a new guiding force for a new discipline that the haiku form requires; here are some samples of recent attempts)


wind is nothing
but moving air-
think about it

*

the last oak and maple leaves
race each other in the streets
one final gasp of colorful breath

*

studying maps-
life in
two dimensions

*

shaking branch-
the bird
flew away

*

so many shooting stars-
where they going off to
in such a hurry?

*

starlings on the wire
sing in myriad voices-
little black songbooks

*

a lonesome sparrow
fighting the wind
lands on a powerline

*

famously distrustful of
scientists and historians-
the dreamy poet

*

Joshua tree sings
a hollow song
in November coldfront

*

first snowfall in the Sierra
looks like heaven
from the desert floor

*

trees in the backyard
gone to seed-
sparrows feed on the ground

*

everything in a
haze, a swampy
forest of dreams

*

mountains in clouds,
mountains of clouds-
what's the difference?

*

autumn in the desert
watching ravens dive
in a stripmall parking lot

*

seagulls in the Valley,
so far
from the sea

*

every single
Van Gogh brushstroke
is a haiku

*

on the museum balcony
staring at the sea-
God's artwork


*

frail and submissive
like a child
in another's arms

*

the great tideless
ocean of time-
desert dust on my car

*

show no pity
for the dying
deer, fox, or sparrow

*

heat grows faint
in the long
shadows of dusk

*

cold birds in the mountains
flying west
don't care that it's Christmas

*

sifting the fine sand
with your fingers,
feeling ages slip through

*

compassionate and ascetic,
each Catholic saint
a lightskinned Buddha

*

each in his
own holy place
under the moon

*

three jets' vapor trails
made a crease
in the morning sky

*

we are all
existentialists, because
we all exist