The interior ghosted, or he who ghosted himself, the inside 
of his skull gone: the inside nocturne a series of dark 
memories he can no longer remember. Things knock out 
certain people, take out the insides of their once beautiful 
mercurial heads; those with the undaunted imaginations, the 
fearless courage; those who once climbed from valley to the 
highest mountain top to crow, to leap; yet, one day, 
something terrible crashes, something catches up, the light 
goes out, completely; a mystery that no one can unravel or 
claim; we, the lovers, can only witness the frame, the hollow 
rusty metal frame, the cusp of the ceramic socket, the lamp 
no longer a lamp.  Yet the strange red petals, the 
bougainvillea, slowly brocaded up, slightly aflutter around the 
erect pole of what barely remains of a man's body, a man's 
memory; the tears & sorrow steadfast for Johanna, 
steadfast for the disappearance - the brother, the son, the 
lover. The petals, the tears, the unbearably lovely tears. 

In memory, in part, for my brother, Christopher.
21st Street, between Guerrero & Valencia, San Francisco.
 
 
 
 

Raised by Ghosts 

She said she was raised by Ghosts. I have seen them there
behind the Church, thick knotted and burred branches, 
hardly fit for caressing. Not knowing them - not even being 
able to see or talk to or touch them - how could I, she said, 
be anything but terrified?

Behind the Church, riveted by the sight of her ghosts - were 
they parents, were they siblings? - speechless I stood. As 
were my comarades: tongue tied, not one movement to 
their heads, nor across their stiff, thick white hair.

These are the best apples - also behind the Church - much 
too high to reach. Eros establishes herself by the proximity 
of distance. What one cannot devour remains eternal. Who 
does not know her (Eros), remember her, dwell on her?
Why are so many intent on devouring the earth? 
 
 
 
 

Ophelia & Hamlet: The Ghosts

Perchance, Ophelia, a dream? Don't bet on it. Au natural the 
weeping willows cradle your sleeping face: witless, absent 
song, yet moistened. Yet, look below - solid as High School - 
there, too, Hamlet calmly lies. The water and blue stones, 
the ghosts amongst you. 

What is a ghost? A flickering of memory, the Van bearing a 
spa, a hook-up, et al. Hamlet, the artificial, hot waters 
swirling, Time's wheel still under your back. Ophelia, sadly, 
impossible to throw a wet kiss. Ghosted - metallic and 
marbled - permanent, Time's fate. An Instruction? Roll on. 
Relax. 

Spa Delivery & Repair Van, between 22nd & Hill Street, on Sanchez Street, San Francisco
 
 

Basketball

Autumn & the juice returns. The rhythm. Slap on the ball. 
Drum beat patter against floor, against asphalt. Youth re-
enfolds. Leap taken, not taken. Jump shot, long shot, lay-
up, fake here, fake there, drive. Drive, one never stops 
saying: Backyard, Elementary, Junior, High School, College, 
Pro. The rhythm of one's life, one's season, the delivery: 
one's shots, one's defenses, one's gifts: the high arc of the 
ball drifting down:

In memory, Robert Creeley, passed this year.