Listening to an MLK Speech From the Sixties in my 60’s

Less than a week after Trump’s
shithole comments about El Salvador, Haiti, and Africa
oh you racist insufferable man
from the water closets of vipers
who looks at a piece of land
and sees dollars

our contractor-in-chief
in the Oval Office
a big-time operator
working for the oil, coal, and gas industries
thinking he can talk shit
and get away with it       putting  a contract
out on all of us.         Resist!

I sit this morning
parked at the 24-Hour Fitness
listening to the King of Love
deliver a speech
three days before he’d received
the Nobel Peace Prize

remembering when I was sixteen
living in the same world as this man
who talked of equality and justice
he touched
my child’s heart with the truth
and it’s here   in this body
our community       giving us breath.

Octopus Salon reading (Pandemonium Press) January 4, 2018

The Blood Donor’s Flash of Fiction

Buy my book, The Golem

Links to my work

The Amazonian

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Ladies, Never Grow up to Date a Lawyer

Seeing black and red

I did enjoy making love in his bed, definitely 1000 plus thread count sheets, and satiny pillows in a house that featured a fireplace off the kitchen and a working slot machine from one of his clients. His house had a three-tiered garden filled with olive, lemon, and pear trees. He didn’t believe in flowers. “They take too much work.” During Christmas, he had three mangers arranged on the top of antique dressers including one that he’d bought on a cruise to Fairbanks, Alaska. The manger featured an igloo with baby Jesus awaiting a visit from the Three Kings who were being escorted by a white polar bear. It was lovely. He talked. He never stopped talking, told me about an elderly woman with flaming red hair who over the years had enlisted his services to keep from being evicted. “We were good friends.” Time after time, he’d rescued her and pulled the necessary legal strings to keep her in her house, but this last time, she’d ended up in an assisted living facility with her dog Gretchen, who’d been her only companion. One evening, the lawyer had received a call from a nurse to come quickly. She was dying. He appeared at her bedside, which was rancid with sweat and pee. He insisted, “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t pay your rent this last time? I would’ve filed a stay.”

She didn’t want to hear his legal arguments, just to extract the promise that when she died, he’d take care of Gretchen. He promised. She died.

I was impressed by his dedication to his clients. I also learned that red hair had played an important role in the lawyer’s life. An artist with red locks had lived at his compound for three years but had departed with another man. Another woman, (and he did not disclose the color of her hair), chose to live with him for eighteen years, and then left. I had entered his life some time after the second woman had joined her son and grandchildren in another state. He muttered curses about the inconsistency of women, lit a fire for me in the pit adjoining the kitchen and poured champagne in proper fluted glasses, as well as shared his knowledge of walnuts (I had assumed only one kind that appeared around Thanksgiving), but added the Hinds Black Walnut variety plus the Livermore Red. He could quote lyrics to songs going back to the forties and wore an Elvis bowling shirt whenever he had a day off, which was infrequently. The lawyer shared stories about his nieces and nephews and how one godchild had vaulted her way to a scholarship. He talked a lot about himself, but on the other hand, I am a good listener.

He never had time to see me, although as a Catholic boy, vowed that he absolutely did. Several weeks went by. He boorishly didn’t call after we made love. He was busy; he was a lawyer. He would be taking the holidays with family on the upper deck. We couldn’t see each other over Christmas, or at least, made no mention of that happening. Text messaged me every day with good mornings and good evenings and nothing else. When I replied, I received autoresponder messages that he was driving. New Years Eve was out of the question; he was attending a birthday party for a godchild. He always answered my questions with cryptic responses. “But that’s not what I asked you!” Why had I assumed that lawyers were good communicators?  When I asked the reason for letting me know that he’d actually been alone on Christmas and not with his family, he replied, “Because you are wise and thoughtful.”

Counselor, I agree.

Which leaves me to ponder that old philosophical adage: I date, therefore I am, (avec sors, donc je suit). Did I need go out on dates to feel alive? Rather than introducing  positive energy into my life, I saw how the fires of love were becoming besmirched with thick layers of soot that took entire weeks  to wash off with continuous applications of aloe vera. Perhaps I was like Elisa, a mute janitor in The Shape of Water, drawn to a mysterious aquatic creature, gills growing from my voice box, a reverse Little Mermaid who leaves the world of men, men who stick their fingers down other peoples’ throats and back stab each other, which is one possibility, another being that I stop caring,  to move past the notion that I cared about my dates at all.  🙁

Instead, I hoped for an intelligent aquatic creature to show up in my bathtub. I’ll bring the kosher salt. 🙂

Octopus Salon reading (Pandemonium Press) January 4, 2018

The Blood Donor’s Flash of Fiction

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Links to my work

The Amazonian

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Dallas, thanks for being a dedicated reader. I would enjoy getting a comment, if so inclined.

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The Clock Was My Movies

An hour-and-a-half ride on the subway from east side to west. Always waiting, finding a place between riveted posts, a light in the tunnel, I hope it’s a train, hot air on my face from the IRT, a seat if I were lucky, just my luck, holding the handles, reading posters, this month’s Miss Subway, Rhonda Rodriguez, her photo never came down, transferred at 42nd Street, one train, two-ways, back and forth, some people rode all day and took up three seats, reading Howard Zinn on the sway, People’s History, New York City and the Ladies Garment Workers Union, the United Federation of Teachers and Albert Shanker, past Hell’s Kitchen, stretches of cement, smell of coffee, Greek restaurants, meatballs staining hero sandwiches orange, walking fast, but always late, stairs to elevators, fifth floor, Van Nostrand Reinhold, a publishing house bought out by Litton Industries, first to market the microwave, press the button, at my desk, Mr. Epley in his office who’d served in the Navy, I’m his secretary, Lina from the Peace Corps wore a bracelet of masking tape, I typed and made mistakes, white-out coated my fingerprints, went for walks during lunch, wanted to find the Chelsea Hotel, home to Brendan Behan, the clock was my movies, I watched it all day, after work, went back down the elevator, caught a different train, a bus to Long Island Jewish, hospital never came

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I was taking a long walk, the first day I had stepped out of the house in an unmarked direction, just a squiggly line on a trail map. I wanted to lose myself. My son had died a month ago from an advanced form of cancer.

A distant figure with an assortment of dogs.

Poodles and pit bulls. They had jumped out of a grey SUV, abandoned in the stream, rusted and dented, a nondescript grey paint sprayed unevenly over the body. She stood in the water and collected fish inside a bucket. It was red and

swimming toward her.

The dogs waited, but only after she had dropped a fish between the paws of each supine animal, did they begin to eat. They were bandaged and limped badly. I thought that maybe she was from a special branch of the ASPCA that cared for abused animals.  Sat down on a fallen tree trunk and watched. Buckeye trees blazed with blossoms of white candelabra. Stinging nettles lined the stream.

An opera house of clouds formed in the sky, billowing. Grey.

Everyone had told me that time heals all, but I wasn’t sure that I would ever feel whole again. He’d been nine years old. We’d buried him with his toys.  The stuffed doggie with floppy ears. I approached, wanted to ask whether the path doubled back to the canyon. I’d been walking all morning. I was feeling tired and hungry. Something. When she saw me, she barred my approach.

The dogs started to bark. Are they dangerous? She said her dogs didn’t like strangers. How did the animals get hurt?  She shook her head and told me I was making the dogs skittish, a thin woman dressed in a torn black sweatshirt and pants. Her arms were scarred. She became frantic and told me to go away. I said I needed help, but as I spoke, the dogs began to whine and rolled on the ground.

The animals turned into children, the poodles were the youngest, and the pit bulls more like twelve year olds, stood near the stream with their rotten bandages and stink. It happened gradually, a hand appearing where there had been a paw, a tail dropped away. All of them licked at their wounds with pink tongues and began to howl, not sure if they were humans or still dogs. Even more unsettling, I recognized in the dog-walker’s eyes

the vacant stare of a mother who had been unable to protect her children.

Review of The Golem

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Antony and Cleopatra

Antony and Cleopatra

“How’re you coming along with your contest entry?” asked AB at our weekly tête à tête in Barnum’s, a coffee shop with nice brown paneling, artwork on the walls by local school kids, altogether a friendly place.

“I’ve been writing here at this table,” I said, but what she didn’t know was that I’d racked up a bunch of free coupons. “Have one on me.”

“Free lattes for life?”

“The boss appreciated my business. Been here with a lot of dates.”

“You’re always so generous.” She left to order at the counter. Secretly, I was hoping to avoid her question, for as you know dear reader, I didn’t have a strong handle on where I was headed, wasn’t too sure how to talk about love. Many others before me have tried. Take Antony and Cleopatra, for example, a lovely play by Shakespeare written in 1606 according to Harold Bloom, considered to be a Shakespearian scholar, whereby and wherefore the two lovers, Tony and Cleo, are ready to retire from public life. After all, Antony has waged countless successful military campaigns and Cleopatra has built an Egyptian Empire on her own casting couch; they both have the hots for each other, and figure after all those years, they’re entitled. (Beep. Wrong assumption.) She floats on perfume-scented barges and gets others to research any competition that Octavius throws her way, namely his sister; the two lovers are waylaid by the conflicting demands and jealousies of a world that exists outside their immutable love. Cleopatra finally marries Antony while she’s dying, which is no way, as far as I can see, to start a relationship.

“It’s not fair!” I want to cry out, which is exactly what many adults had tried to tell me growing up. “The world is not fair.” But what does that mean when you are a child, and believe that you are a superhuman superhero who is about to change everything and set the entire world with its conventions and misguided ideas on its head? The kid thinks, just give me enough time to get a driver’s license and figure out a way to buy alcohol before I’m eighteen. The world is not fair is like saying to a young person you have to eat dessert last, which doesn’t make sense, until, that is, the kid, you, me, we get our asses kicked big-time and end up in a variety of places like jail or the hospital, on the street with a sleeping bag to keep us warm at night, which forces us to reconsider everything, especially our approach to love, which can make fools of us all. But there are those, a select group who engineer start-up companies by the time that are eleven years old and have everything going for them, money and power; men who could choose to become Harvey Weinsteins, but don’t because they’ve been raised right, and anyway, their mothers would come after them with rolling pins; women who know, before puberty strikes, exactly who they are and what they want to do, stand up to any loud-mouth who may tell them differently; they fall into a dance pattern that repeats without becoming repetitive—a gentle 3.4 beat toward a loving life.

AB came back with her latte, a tree emblazoned in the foam. She set the coffee on the table and sighed. It wasn’t like her to sigh. Maybe to talk fast, or tell me about a new job, or let me know about the next road trip she and Miriam were planning, but sighing, never!

“What’s up?” I asked. She placed her spoon in the center of the foam and splashed at the tree, tore the tops off two sugar packets, and emptied them into her cup.

“It’s Miriam’s mother,” she said.

I’d already known about Bianca, a Portuguese woman who  had been married to a pottery wholesaler who could afford to buy designer everythings. He also maintained a specialized entourage to plan kinky sex parties throughout Europe. I wasn’t sure how AB knew about the latex details. My guess is that he attended without Bianca. I couldn’t imagine her sharing those intimacies with her daughter, unless she had a good reason. Mine never would, a woman who rarely talked to me about sex, although she did broach the subject once when she found out that I was no longer a virgin, “Who will marry you now, my little flower?” In any case, Bianca was elderly, alone, and without financial resources.

Review of The Golem

KPFA Open Book (hosted by Nina Serrano) November 2017

Getting an Extra Hand (Little Leo Journal) November 2017

From the Lower Depths (New Verse News) August 2017

No Orange for Julius (Eunoia Review)August 2017

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App Developer Sued for Defamation


Labusu derives from the ancient Sumerian word for cloth, originally used to wrap up stuff from the marketplace.  In 2025, electric car manufacturers bundled labusu with self-driving cars as thank you gifts, but as soon as they became available, they zoomed to the top of everyone’s holiday shopping list, morphed from a Sumerian cloth into a flattened smart phone about the size of a baseball card. But that’s not what got me into trouble.

You see, people downloaded AI apps that allowed labusus to transform into dozens of other objects—a virtual pet, for example, to an awesome vibrator with multiple handles. They were cheap. Robotic factories stamped out millions. In short order, the Labusu company went public, but after the initial stock offering, consumers realized they were all identical—personalized maybe with Loïs Mailou Jones patterns, but with the same ten functions. App developers hit a wall, discovered that it would take years to reach the next level of AI programming. At the same time, the company didn’t want to kill its golden goose. That’s where I came in.

I work for J’Athena in Parkinsons, Nebraska, one of many robotic factories that dot the outlying areas of cities and are located close to Amazon distribution centers. Like every manufacturer, their bottom line was slipping as fast as the Arctic was melting, which might have been the only reason they bothered to contact me. I am (or was) a profile developer. My personality types have been employed in countless online games. You probably are familiar with them.

The company got the bright idea to distinguish labusu through their previous owners. Any labusu that had been held by guitarist Joe Bonamassa, for example, even if it only were to wipe his nose, became valuable. The representative for J’Athena who visited my mobile home, told me they needed me to develop celebrity profiles. “We want to make each one different. We want to drive sales through the roof. We want you to help us.”

I knew this was a fraud, but they didn’t give me a choice. J’Athena said that if I leaked a word, they would resort to “action” which in Parkinsons, Nebraska, could only mean one thing. They backed up their claims with the address of my ex and kid who lived in Detroit. I had left after something bad had happened to me. Let’s say I found the job offer compelling.

I combed through databases to identify every like or dislike of hundreds of celebrities—what they ate for breakfast, what books they read, what hair products they used—building new identities for unique labusus that were being traded on the web for thousands.

Instead of just having me profile celebrity artists who’d died from overdoses, they started to include ones who were still alive. Most celebrities were delighted that their names kept lighting up the tabloids until I started to uncover some interesting data about how so-and-so was raped by so-and-so, which started a shitstorm. J’Athena hung me out to dry, claimed that it was a nefarious smear campaign.  I’m in jail now waiting for my hearing and my check. I keep having really bad nightmares.

Upcoming Readings

November 1, Osher Marin JCC, San Rafael, 200 N. San Pedro Road, with Rose Black and Andrena Zawinski, 1-3pm

November 8, Poetry Center, 5th floor, Humanities Building, San Francisco State, 5pm (I’ll read for about 10-15 minutes from my new novel.)

November 12, Jewish Community Library, San Francisco, 1835 Ellis Street, 1:30pm

December 10, Brit Marie reading series at 1369 Solano Avenue, Albany, 3:30 to 5pm.

The Blood Donor’s Flash of Fiction

Buy my book, The Golem

Links to my work

The Amazonian

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Portland in the Alberta District

Only in Portland can the words real estate and karma be conjoined in a single sentence. I listened to two guys who embraced their coffee mugs as they talked about downsizing. Back and forth about fixing a roof and other do-it-yourself projects as one of the guys was getting ready to move into a two-room apartment. One has a long black ponytail roped off every inch or so with a rubber band; the other has a skull ring and tattoos running up his right arm with the name “Patricia” above his elbow. I have two tattoos, a crocodile at the back of my neck, and the other behind my ear, which means that everyone can see them except me.

The coffee is dishwater. I would’ve been better off forgoing the half & half, a real shame since this is the Alberta district where coffee houses abound every two storefronts alternating with bicycle, wine, and herb shops—mostly tinctures, teas, and smudge sticks. I could’ve gotten a better cup two blocks away in a place that roasts its own beans, or that’s what a person sitting next to me on the plane said, something else I messed up.

A few weeks before Halloween and time for Night of the Living Dead reruns. A black cat moans on a paper guitar. I stare at the floor beneath my feet that’s tiled with pennies; some are oxidized, others shiny, which give a nice transitional feeling like the floor is moving beneath my feet. Next time I’ll bring along pliers to take up a collection. People sit at tables and stare into cellphones and consult the oracle. Clothing is black and  paired with velvet capes, leather vests, and corduroy pants. The Mavericks are playing in town, one of Bryan’s favorite bands, country crossed with salsa.

Flew out of Sacramento and didn’t let him know, wonder if he’s waiting for me at the house, not sure what I’m doing sitting here at this table drinking weak coffee and charging my cellphone. Maybe he reported me missing, or frantically called up my friends. I’m not looking even when I’m teaching and standing in front of a room filled with students, hands waving at me as though they’ve found the answer to a puzzle. Sometimes I wonder if we can see what’s happening to ourselves.

The Blood Donor’s Flash of Fiction

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Online Dating Contest

Annabelle was my best girlfriend and by that, I mean the one who’s seen me through a divorce, at least two abortions that I’m willing to admit, and the birth of one of my children with shit coming out of my rear end as the nurses tried to get my feet back in the stirrups. Always the voice of calm in the eye of a storm even when I wasn’t sure I’d qualify for unemployment benefits due to some scum bag boss wanting to stab me in the back, and the only person who would return my phone calls within a one-hour’s time frame, no matter what else was happening in her life, even a pile-up, she’d pull over and call because that’s what we did for each other. I won’t bore you with how we first met, but it was in second grade when she tapped me on the shoulder since she had no implements to write with and our teacher, Mrs. Woodcock, was about to dismiss her from the room for coming to school once again hopelessly unprepared, a teacher who delighted in locking her charges in the clothing closet for the smallest infraction. Some would pooh-pooh this as an exaggeration of a deranged mind, but I assure you that is not the case. I saved the day with my offering of a pencil, and inconspicuously threaded my fingers into her palm. To show her appreciation, Annabelle shared with me her peanut butter and jelly sandwich that oddly tasted of Campbell’s Tomato soup, which I greedily ate, since my own mother had prepared a bologna sandwich that had fallen out of my bag and onto the yard during recess, a gravelly mess. Since then, we’ve been BFFs forever, so whenever AB wants to tell me something, I listen.

I’d been languishing after yet another failed relationship, which had gone into a Tomb of Annihilation. I’d found little solace in thumbnails of online daters, all who blended into a generic profile, and after several years of making my way through these pathways of disillusionment and single-handedly keeping several coffee shops in business through a revolving door of prospective daters, I vowed to retire to my queen-sized bed with a good book and my cellphone. “I’m done with it,” I told AB and put down my cup of coffee on the drain board. “Not by a long shot,” she said, and opened up my computer to a site where they were advertising a writing contest for stories about online dating. “Who better, my pet, than you?”


September 18, Berkeley, Poetry Express, 1585 University Avenue, 7-9pm, Open Mic

October 14, Alameda, Frank Bette Art Center, 1601 Paru Street, with Nina Serrano, 7-9pm, Open Mic,

November 1, Osher Marin JCC, San Rafael, 200 N. San Pedro Road, with Rose Black and Andrena Zawinski, 1-3pm

November 12, Jewish Community Library, San Francisco, 1835 Ellis Street, 1:30pm

Buy my book, The Golem

Links to my work

The Amazonian

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Janis in Port Arthur, Texas

Janis Joplin

Excuse me, sir, but need an assist? I can see that you’re sitting around like a hang-dog watching the water recede from your porch like someone’s pulled the bathtub plug and it’s all going to shit. Pardon my potty mouth. If you didn’t live so far out, maybe one of your neighbors could lend a hand. All I’ve got is an extra cold beer. Take it. Let’s say I have my own private stock. But what I really wish is that I had something stronger to offer. Me? Like to drink whiskey on a couple of unsteady rocks.

See that you’re working in the refineries, got that company logo on a blanket pulled around your shoulders. I always peddled out to Sabine Woods, loved to watch the loons and pelicans away from the sound of those catalytic reformers and desalters. Fuck, this place stinks. Always has. Always will. Curious about what we’re drinking? Curiosity almost killed a cat. Got it from one of those microbrew places in Austin. Glad they didn’t get washed out, and hallelujah to that!

Names for all those machines come to me second nature. My daddy was an engineer at Texaco; mom was a registrar. So much for that.

See you have a few guitars still left standing on your porch.

Back in the day, I stood on stage with a white python wrapped around my neck. Wore sequins; the audience kept clapping. Everyone was stoned out of their minds. No, didn’t come here for some benefit concert. FEMA workers running around with clipboards. Red Cross workers unfolding cots faster than you can say, Open Sesame. Ha! I’m here for your benefit–to the rescue. Let’s drink to that!

You feel me? You play?

Mostly, I wanted to see if that marker in front of my old house got washed away. Curious, I guess. More like a way for the city to rope in tourists. Called me a misfit. Expected me to refine shit.  You got that right. What we got on our hands is a Biblical flood. We need to build the Ark and sail away.

I like what you’re playing. Cool licks. Sounds like the rain and the wind having a hissy fit. Back where I came from, they’re celebrating the Summer of Love, By all accounts, I think it’s the 50th anniversary. Glad I stopped by to cheer you up. Aw, let me give you a kiss. 

A bigger kiss. Take a little piece of my heart now baby.

Upcoming Readings:

September 2, Oakland Beast Crawl, The Good Hop, 2421 Telegraph Avenue, Oakland

September 9, San Francisco, Quiet Lightning, Candlestick Point SRA, 10am to 5pm: Literary mixtape readings by: Gracia Mwamba, Rich Baiocco, Lisa Piazza, Kimberly Gomes, Raina J. Leòn, Linda Michel-Cassidy, Tomas Moniz, Peter Kline, William Vlach, Lenore Weiss, Abbie Jeanne Amadio, Yael Hacohen, and Jill Bronfman!

September 16, Berkeley, Poetry Express, 1585 University Avenue, 7-9pm, Open Mic

October 14, Alameda, Frank Bette Art Center, 1601 Paru Street, with Nina Serrano, 7-9pm, Open Mic,

November 1, Osher Marin JCC, San Rafael, 200 N. San Pedro Road, with Rose Black and Andrena Zawinski, 1-3pm

November 12, Jewish Community Library, San Francisco, 1835 Ellis Street, 1:30pm

Buy my book, The Golem

Links to my work

The Amazonian

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