i’d be a real buddhist
but i first i've got to
get back to provo
and watch brian vomit
in a members only bar

still returning to new york
to rescue vinny from drowning
got to find a chiropractor
jamaica, Queens

maybe buenos aires
jen says
work a year here
and live for three there
we could buy a condo
just dont go looking for work

still got to visit Michael
in Ottowa
he's getting older
but eleven acres
i could camp there
and listen to war stories
Egypt, India
the sailors yelled from their ship
“give us a beer!”
poured into the sand

promised scott to sail
down Wabash river late summer
mississippi too big
we’d prolly drown

but the buddhist in me says
these places smell
like your alley too
its only your memories
that dont smell

then why Kyoto?
why go to find devotion
to Kali in south India?
why Tibetan sitting upright
buzzing around a mountainside
waiting for the earth to turn
and the sun to burn away the dew?

Here are a few more random pictures I've taken in the past couple months:


This was taken down the block from my place of employment one morning. The bus used to get me there too early, so I'd have to find a way to occupy my time.


This is from our first hike in Topanga Canyon, shot on one of those little iZone miniature Polaroid cameras.


Taken during a "Grilled Cheese Eating Contest" on Venice Beach. My neighbor heard all this commotion, and went down to find grown people stuffing their faces with soggy bread and processed cheese food.

old man
you should be nobler here
riding the bus
tattered brown leather coat
or perhaps from
sleeping under lifeguard tower 27
santa monica state beach
your face too tan
hands too wrinkled
to live in luxury
no porche
no office
you're content in carrying your 48 years
in your duffle bag
not like my father
worked hard
kept folks hands warm
and lights on in homes
through biting midwest winters
thirty years soon pension
diligent and without a hitch

Someone said there is a soul
beneath this city’s streets
I didn’t believe him
only visions of raw chapparal
stunted growth
trying not to be too political i said
Who buried the Pharaoh who shot the Pope?
I’ll show you he said
and got a shovel ran across the street
restaurants and cafes gaped
as he heaved the handle above his head
like a great Goliath
sent the spade into the sidewalk
all jumped back as he
pulled the slabs away
he got down and began to swim
in the sublayer of sand
Wheresthecityssoul?
Wheresthecityssoul?
he screamed
I walked home surrounded by
succulents and stray cats
breathing purple night
a thousand wash machines hummed
in my alley
I crouched down low
pressing my ear to the gravel
and listened to the wail of angels
beneath this city’s steets.

Here are a few pictures from my recent trip to San Francisco. The city was great, even the bums were creative.


This is me in next door to City Lights Bookstore, founded by Mr. Ferlinghetti, who was friends with Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, who also hung out at the Vesuvio together right across the street.


A damn hilly city. My legs got a good workout in just three short days.


Jen at Alcatraz. The cells were pretty creepy. Especially the "solitary" section, which put prisoners in total darkness 24 hours a day. One prisoner said that as a game he played with himself, he would pull a button off of his outfit, throw it across his cell, then crawl on his hands and knees and find it. Wowee Billy Bob! Sounds like a hoot!

More later.

Matt