Saturday, July 5, 2014

Fourth of July

Some American things:

Sunlight, smeared lipstick, Whitney Houston’s “Star Spangled Banner” lip synched, a wig waving like an underwater plant, a patriotic track-suit crinkling, bitter vodka from a yellow squirt gun, empty streets waiting for darkness and fireworks, a newscast about Irag from a curtained window, a child with a sparkler chasing a small white dog, American cheese on a pale tortilla, the red walls of a bar, stories of growing up in rough ‘hoods in L.A. with a hair metal dad, stories of working in porn and being a slave house boy, stories of him finding her online in rural Oregon - two years later here they are all dressed up and visiting the city - the rounded folds of the latex cop uniform, Blondie lyrics “...with your badge and rubber boots...” a leash extended with a tender threat, rhinestones decorating a tiny padlock on a collar, the night air still warm, booms and rattles all quiet, the wind carrying the scents of flowers and gunpowder.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

San Francisco

I didn't have the heart to photograph the shining new places and people.  The Google camera car zipping down Valencia St. can do that without my help.  Let new SF look upwards, forwards – I'd rather look down. This city has always kept its diary in its gutters. 

The changes in San Francisco seem less surprising when the afternoon the fog comes rolling down the hills, determined to make an airy substance of all in its path. Whole neighborhoods appear and disappear. The Bay fades and returns.  Vapor cinema.

In the whirl overhead  bodies twist, fold, encounter each other – sweat evaporates in soft clouds – spastic, hurried, then slow, slow breaths exhale – In the expanding arms of mist there  is a  quivering night, finally happening, with someone that you’ve wanted for so long – there’s the happy gliding of walking towards the home of a beloved –there’s downward pull of wandering drunk and heartbroken – there’s the circular current of those going from work to home to work – there’s the bristle of the thousands of dollars that  pass through the city every hour – there’s the apartment window once bright, now darkened by the high-rise condo that cuts off all light and view.

Like the fog the wind gathers the city into itself – sirens, construction banging,  words, sighs, shouts of pain and defiance, grunts, whispers, lover’s truths, political lies, testimonies, eulogies,  memories recounted, lives made up between shots of whisky and late night pillows, secrets spoken alone at 5 a.m..  Beneath it all, finally, the last breaths, the last words, the memory of a silence that equaled death, made all the more clear by the rush of the wind and the snap of the gigantic rainbow flag of above the Castro. 

Nearby, a soiled red shirt waves from a shrub that marks some abandoned, homeless lovers’ camp. There are empty lube packets scattered about– small, single use ones, labeled “I.D. moments.”  Identity moments. Time leaked out of torn   plastic.  No condoms in sight –only the Ironic evidence of quick,  anonymous, unprotected fucks in the rattlesnake grass. For some life here on the ground isn’t any more solid than the fog above.

There's so much that could be written about SF - what's gone. what's going, what remains – I'll leave it with this:

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

2013 - here and there - my favorites in no real order




club chemtrail


Embers (New Year's Eve 2012)

Louisiana and rural Mardi Gras





Portland Meadows

Herkimer - Mom

New Orleans

Portland - Halloween