Sunday, October 2, 2011


Time to get down to business now...and I have been working really hard at getting my first film completed and ready for screening. I have two interviews tomorrow which shall be very interesting and I'm not sure what to expect. But, each time that I do this, I am completely surprised and blown away at what I discover. It's never what I originally expect to hear.

So here is where I am at now, funding. We need a lot of help as we are paying for everything out of pocket right now to get this done and it is getting really tough. However, I know that I can get this done no matter what. I am currently in the works for a fundraiser to be be held in San Francisco with live music (some very cool bands) as well as some comedians who have been featured in the film to help us raise funds. I wanted to attach a link here of a sample from the film of our interview with these guys. COMEDIANS
They are extremely funny and I hope that you enjoy this sample teaser from the film. Also, if you or anyone that you know who loves San Francisco as much as I do and would like to help support the film, here is a link to our teaser and page. Folks can donate to the project here and there are perks! Like seeing these crazy comedians in concert here in the City as well as thank you credit in the film! Thanks for viewing and pass it on! Cheers!


Thursday, August 11, 2011

San Francisco Values: The Movie

I have been away for awhile working on my very first film and it has been quite a ride. I would love for you all to check out the little teaser that we just cut which can be seen here:

Also, we have a Facebook fan page under the name, San Francisco Values The Movie so please "like" the page if so inclined.!/pages/San-Francisco-Values-The-Movie/245615538795361

Thanks for checking everything out and sorry for being away for so long.



Saturday, June 18, 2011


Unfortunately or fortunately, I have not been able to write or post recently due to a new creative project that I am currently working on. I cannot say much about it, however, it will be in the form of a documentary film that I am writing/directing based in my lovely city of San Francisco. I will share more details in the months to come so please check back once in awhile for links and to see updated information.

I still hope to write poetry and post on all of my favorite poetry blogs but it won't be as frequent as I would like. Thanks to all who do check in and read from time to time.



Thursday, May 19, 2011


Photo by Michael Johnson

I now understand the veil,
The one that covers our faces and our bodies
And the religiosity of rehearsed obedience.

I now understand the veil,
Mere fibers that transform the mundane
Into epic episodes of false grandeur.

I now understand the veil,
The failed American Dream and
A romance novel set in an indigo sky.

I now understand the veil,
A shell used to combat shame
To fool the foolish.

I now understand the veil,
Hidden turbulence
With a platinum credit card.

I now understand the veil,
Distant relatives' likeness in which
We have reluctantly become.

I now understand the veil,
We threw rocks at each other
Because feelings were too difficult to articulate.

I now understand the veil,
Blueprint successes marked with
Status measurable only to a corporate sponsor.

I now understand the veil,
Longing to be free but
Hiding just like me.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


In desolation, he appears under my wood sash and screams incomprehensibly to my no-soul. I'm startled by it so I leave home for one of the last times even though I'm clinging, to go meet up with Rita the rational one. She always has something comforting to say about the comings and goings of things, and usually adds in a tidbit about why Bodhidharma decided to make it out East to round things out. I'm shaking says me, shaking all the damn time and while this makes me feel discomposed, she assures me that it is only natural. Rita is swirling her iced tea with her pinkie finger, a look of contemplation in her eyes, focused on a point unknown or unimportant and I am anxious. You know, she says, after some time, returning her pensive gaze towards I, you are clearly being watched. Her sentiment only increases my uneasiness and in respectful turn, my stare becomes glossy in thought. I don't like the idea of being exposed, I don't want to tell a story, I don't want to be the reality of reality, and I sure as hell don't want to be watched. In instantaneous, educated conclusion of my own understanding, he reveals himself again. He musta followed me that rat. Clearly cloaking my existence was not on the crow's agenda and I would soon be forced to find complacency. Rita's pursed lips attached to a cigarette like an extremity glowed as she spoke. It cant be that bad, can it? She said. I concurred and thanked her for the company of another human being and excused myself. Alone, I hiked up Post and fumbled for my keys before they would become useless, sat on the floor of my soon to be empty home, and waited for him to present himself under sash once more.

For One Stop Poetry

Tuesday, May 3, 2011


Rough Draft for One Shot Wednesday @One Stop Poetry

What is it like to be a slave to your NASDAQ?
To have, have and have nothing of value,
Miserable at the core but 'cha got stuff and on the
Outside and to me, you have everything.

'Cept the buggaboos
Pesky splinters under fingernails,
Undercover agents who seemingly
Infiltrate personal security, sole purpose to obliterate.

What is it like to be so scared all of the time?
I myself, am afraid of the postman,
Do you lose sleep?
Do you forget to notice your breath upon awakening?

Is life meant to be viewed in 18 millimeter,
Black and white with dust embedded
In the film introducing a faint, filmy, fog,
Masking tangibility.

What is it like to create unwanted stories that eventually become truth?
Do children learn from television by osmosis?
She is such a bad person, so needy with no needs at all.
No, it was his upbringing, he said...that's why- coddled too much.

She had a bad mother, sister, father-
That's why there is war and he didn't pray enough
He didn't pray, he didn't pray enough
And here she is, story already told with irreparable branches.

What is it like to have a voice but use it only for self interest?
What is is like to have a voice and use it for hate?
What is it like to have a voice and do nothing?
What is it like to have a voice?

Wednesday, April 27, 2011


The present has become the past,
The future has become the present
And the wheel continues to turn
The pigeon on my stoop is a voyeur.

The pictures on my wall and
The chimera cigarette burns on the floor,
With the leftovers of you and your scent
Memories of my conformity.

Fear has become biblical and my home consequential
So I burn sage
Without reasoning but I was told to do such
Just in case.

Just in case the supernatural might smell
The incense of my sincerity
And of the ritual cleansing of my failure
Thusly expelling desire.

Born on the morn of a day
Only historical to me, taught me,
That my suffering can only be derived
From carnal desire to be free

Of suffering and of the strings
That attach me to shit that harms and is irrelevant,
To the community at large
Forging distraction and destruction.

I'm as pure as a misguided bhikku could be
Asking for nothing unless offered
Willfully accepting when given
And praying for contentment and rebirth.

Sunday, April 17, 2011


With prehensile cognizance
I read the obituaries
And I saw my picture but
Didn't like the look on my face.

I didn't like the way that my eyes
Were squinting in the light,
Or the shirt that I was wearing,
The fact that I had conformed to a complicated life.

I was taught to be sensible
And nothing that I ever did would
Be considered sensible,
I was a rolling stone.

I didn't believe in god,
Slept in all day
Found beauty in the cracks
Laughed at silly liturgy.

I was on everyone's prayer list
I hated the smell of success
Voted for the rights of my brothers
A social outcast.

There was a crowd outside Green Street
At the mortuary and another across the way
With Guinness and bangers and mash and smiles
And I hoped to be there instead.

This must be heaven.

Sunday, April 10, 2011


Sometimes I wish that I still felt as I did in my youth, struggling for identity and acceptance but sill innocent nonetheless. This one is just for fun...


I was a punk
And now I am just a hipster, semi-wanderer
Who sometimes forgets youth
Those guys, I'm flashing back in time to, running around in circles
On dirt floors of the Seaman's Lodge in the hills
With trench coats harming no one but punching each other nonetheless

It was mad, innocent fun and the energy
Was something out of an indie film that my parents wouldn't let me see,
And that's why I liked it so much.
Anarchist sheaths who sat on the grass
Waiting for mediocrity and brilliance
A beat up bass amp used for a regular guitar instead.

Freedom and rolling and rolling down the slope
Like it would never end and there was no end.
I wished that I had a Mohawk
Or that I did drugs.
I wanted a nickname.

You can call me Smalls
Duct tape

I wanted a cigarette but I was scared.
The other 16 year old kids were doing it
But what would it mean for my soul?
I wanted to be remembered
But I was a good kid and rarely did anything wrong.

This was so un-punk.
The music squelched to deafening levels
And the circle of pseudo violence commenced again.
Yelling at my comrade for the night over the sweet noise
I said, “Punch me!”

Without hesitation, I flexed my stomach muscles
And with even less hesitation, he hit me in the gut.
I wheezed and he marched with a crooked smirk.
“Oh!” He yelled at my neck, “What was that for?”
“Punk rock, baby, punk rock,” I screamed back.

Visit One Stop Poetry for more fun!

Friday, April 8, 2011


This is based on a photo prompt for this photograph via One Stop Poetry

It has come to this,
To the point when pain
And suffering and
Struggle can no longer
Keep the lights on,
The gulls have found

Brighter shores
Somewhere off in the distance
Across oceans without war
Patience dissipated
And hope dilapidated
“Just take me now!” I screamed.

I've had a good run
It's time for me to go
And I'm tired...
My eyes are growing poorer
But I can't pay for solution
Just take me now.

The papers say rain
The papers say coma
The papers say racism
The papers say one more innocent child killed
The papers say..shit.
Just take me now.

I'm talking to you goddess
Are you listening
To the plight of others
And not just the plight of mine?
It pains you and you are conflicted
But what shall I do this time?

Just take me now please
So that I won't have to
See what is happening all around me,
And ashes to ashes
And dust to dust
Will be a simple memory.

For One Stop Poetry


I'm wired incorrectly...
There is something clearly wrong with me,

I have trouble functioning in the box that was
Created for me, or by history, or by religion,
Or maybe it was American society
That caused me to be an outsider
Or to become fearful of feeling different, as if I don't belong


White picket fence, don't forget to pay your rent
On time, because there is never enough time
And you scare me with your tactics,
Why do you do that when you know that it
Fuels fear and that if the tables were turned,
Your legs would buckle from explicable trembling and,
You would beg for mercy,

But hey's just business,
What's not to understand about that?

I'm wired incorrectly...
There is something clearly wrong with me,

And when I'm scared, I'm scared and you are scared
About what is going to happen to your home
When Rosie the Riveter meant less suffering
Because you, you had a job and whilst you had to get dirty
You were proud and were no longer afraid of what was happening
Outside of our comfortable little box and war felt like redemption.

Ah, those were good times...when we rounded up
Anyone and everyone who didn't look like you
Placed them in a cage and forgot about the holocaust,
But damn did we quell our fear of bunnies.

I'm wired incorrectly...
There is something clearly wrong with me,

I've tried to but no matter how hard I do try,
I can't seem to figure out how to fit into your box.
Did you see me on the streets? When I asked you for some spare change
And you said that you couldn't help?
I was lied to and you lied...
But I realize,

I'm wired correctly.

Monday, April 4, 2011

A Prayer

I saw you thrice tonight
But there was no notice,
No noticeable acknowledgment
Of me, as a human being
I am background
I am an afterthought
I am noise
I am poised
On the Brink of non-existence
But I am smiling for some reason,
Watching you go about your daily duties,
Goings and comings about,
Your invisible stress only visible to me.
I wonder what it's like to be on your side

I am a matchbook
I am your mortgage
I am your newspaper
I am a candle
I am your prayer request
I am your new phone book sitting on your hopeful porch
I am that guy on the street
I am protest
I am enlisted
I am ignorant by choice
I am baseball and crackerjacks
Cracked into little decadent pieces
And I am your advertisement

Where did you go that night when you walked out?
I was waiting.
For a glimpse of understanding
But I understand when life just feels, oh too real
And it's hard to breathe.
Breathe deep and I'll breath for you because it's simple
To breathe and soon ugly will disappear

And I will be your prayer request even though you really were never here.

For One Shot Wednesday!

Saturday, March 26, 2011

My Head

My head,
You always live in your head she said.
But is it enough for you and what do you think
About the nonexistence of god?

Sun-kissed sky and crazy moon on the horizon,
Home foreclosures and pink slips,
Unemployment and homelessness
Feels like religion.

He held her life in his hands and gave
Her too much until she died in his arms
On the table of reprimand, and he questioned
His purpose and the control of a deity.

He drank, god how he drank
Because what the hell else could he do when the
Blame was his and he had no other existential
Way of non-feeling?

I felt longingly for his no-soul
To reach a capacity of unyielding
Acceptance of forgiveness and pure
Acceptance that he

Could accept the fact that the universe
Does what she does and it's often
Harsh and confusing and
Never about you.

He cried
He “messed up,” he said
I could have done something
I could have saved her

I could have...
I hugged him and told him that he was human,
That he was human, that he was human and
That the burden of existence and suffering

Is existence and to not take things too personally
Even when it is personal
And control is lost, and
You feel

You feel lost.

Humanity, humanity
in a box

It's a box filled with disappointment,

It's a box filled with first amendment and litigious rhetoric

It's a box filled with fear and self loathing and self doubt

It's a box filled with love and you are loved.

I gave him what I could that day
When he lost his faith and I told him about the loss of mine,
But not a loss of faith in him, and
In return he cried.

For One Stop Poetry: Congrats on winning the Shorty Award for Art!

Sunday, March 20, 2011


Photo By James Rainsford - for One Shoot Sunday @

Because of a knock on my door
From a stranger delivering bad news,
Because of necessity
And unwanted promises,
Because of failed attempts to conform
To normalcy,
Because I had no other choice than
To put on clean clothes and face the intimidation of corporate intimidation,
Because I needed help,

Did I realize that all would be well.

Instantly, when I began to doubt,
A pigeon swooped down and smacked me on the head to remind me to forget and smile.

Laughing like a fool I sang.

For One Shoot Sunday @ Onestop Poetry

Saturday, March 19, 2011


Comes from within, innate in nature
It comes from suffering and the hope of not experiencing such

It is
Overcoming and beguiling.

It is

It is Fox News and MSNBC and Lockup
Debt collector, solicitor on the phone

It is disaster on platinum served freely and without thought,

Or from the concept of life after death.

It is a one night stand.

It is the economy, it is the shiver that reaches to the core of my bones
When you and your life are all too familiar for me and I speed up my gate.

It is
The pain in my body

It is
The pain in my body

The pain in my body that is overflowing with grandiose dreams of content,

Such a fool.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011


The rain, oh, the rain -
An oxymoron, a synonym, another word
For sustainability and pain and
Inconvenience and the bearer of bad fate,
Ambassador of good news for someone else unknown.
On a park bench in the Embarcadero
With read and re-read copies of the Examiner
As intellectual property or comfort and shelter -
Lonnie was pissed that he had washed his belongings the night before
They were all soaked now and was shit out of something
Close to six bucks or a shower and a bed or a prayer
They were all worth about the same.

And I got kicked in the leg for sleeping outside of the Gap
By security, securing suburbia.

For One Shot Wednesday @onestoppoetry

Sunday, March 6, 2011

For Jesse Wasser

You did what you thought that you needed to do
To be a man and provide and mold.
Worked with wood regardless of exploitation,
Joined the Navy – I have a feeling that you,
Never really wanted to do so in the first place,
But machismo was validity in the heyday,
And you bought into it like the rest of us wanderers.
If only you, if only you could have,
If only you could have not listened so intently,
If only you could have realized
That your life was yours and yours alone,
If only you could have had the courage to walk away
Or have even an ounce of gumshoe to be more like Jack,
Then it might not seem so fuckin' normal.
I stand 'neath the tiers of success where you used to
And pose like you do,
And observe vessels and quote verbatim from words you said when you made me a sandwich with butter and I didn't like it because I thought that it was strange.
That's “how it's done,” you said.
And from that moment, I wonder about the wherewithal
Of my mind, and of the ocean so vast
Standing and smoking a cigarette on top of a rock in Carmel,
Saying nothing but reflecting
Hugging grand-kids and whispering apologies to the wind,
“Sorry” for being nothing other than who you are and what you could
Have Been.

Sunday, February 27, 2011


Yahweh, Tathagata, Krishna,

I prayed to you...

...for a run-on sentence that might hold an explanation for the existence of me because it's always about me and I want to know truthfully, in your own words but please keep it somewhat concise though as I need to tweet, and I'm almost out of Starbucks and if I don't have any more Starbucks, well, you are God, you know what will happen. I want to know why I am here, I want to know what my purpose is, I want to know where I am going when I die, I want to know what will happen if I don't file my taxes this year, I want to know if there is a sale going to be happening anytime soon at Macy's because you God, know that I could use the savings and my pants aren't quite fitting me the same as they used to. Hang on, I'm getting another call coming through here...

For One Shot Wednesdays at

Slow Suicide

She has succumbed to slow suicide
And while it's conscious and contentious
The irony is that darkness is sustainable
Despite extraneous indications otherwise.

Her hair cut short with missing patches
Is only mere, visible confirmation
That without much noticeable gray matter left
She knows what she is doing.

Yelling at invisible nothings in the street,
Swearing under her breath to whom I fear is me
For not being willing to share something
That I do not possess.

I can't hate her because I am her and
We are one, we all are.
Medicated by media, by desire
By choices made to feel nonexistence.


Desperation and attack are sojourn
But worry that for others, it's simply too late.
A chronic itch in the eyes of the supervisors
Who only notice when the heater has stopped working.

Street sheets and shelters under sheet metal
Swept under the door, health care budget cuts
And another war, it's easy to forget, hell,
I forgot until it happened to


Tuesday, February 22, 2011


I want to be a grip-man
Charged with navigating the cable cars
I'll run the Powell and Market line
I could be proud of that,
It's respectable, responsible and reasonable.
Or make coffee, I could make coffee...
I just don't want to lift things, heavy things

A degree in intercultural communication
From a prestigious university
Should be pedigree could hope.
He's under-qualified, too qualified she said,
We'll give you a call, and thank you for your time
Consistent rejection felt stirringly comfortable
It smelled like future.

I want to be an artist
Charged with creating beauty and evoking emotion
I'll create murals and paint them all over the City
I could be proud of that,
It's inspiring, influential and indestructible
Or I could sell clothes, I could work in retail
I just don't want to work on commission, nothing too uncertain

He's under-qualified, too qualified she said,
We'll give you a call, and thank you for your time
It smelled like future

I want to be a writer
Charged with telling the stories that have yet to be told
I'll write books, novels and poetry and sell them all over the world
I could be proud of that,
It's like breathing, heart beating and beautiful
Or I could pack up recycled moving blankets and move on
I just don't want to sleep outside any longer

It's December-cold, my feet hurt from walking, and I stink
But to me it smells like hope.

Sunday, February 20, 2011


I love the streets,
Damp, wet, full of red paper
Vacant store fronts resembling my
Life and unsuspecting apartments above

With families.

You smoke weed?
You gotta an extra needle?
You have 23 cents?
I'm hungry
I need a drink to stop shaking
Can I have your short?
You gotta?
You gotta?
Come on man...

Not with gas prices like this and have
You heard about the price of kumquats these days?
I read that congress said something about something
But we'll all just have to wait.

I used to believe that they were looking out for me
That's what I voted for
But I'm stuck as a 99'er and I'm scared
Of the color red

Chairman Mao would've been proud he said
It's spinning and spiraling and I can't afford to go
To General even though I want to, no need to
But I still love the streets

Think global
Think local
Think passion
Think no fear
Think peace
Think prosperity
Think justice
Think, just think

But I still love the streets

It's the only place where you can see
Reality and not the reality of CSPAN
Congressional hearings, which are supposed
To make me feel cared and protected for

You filibuster fucks

Where were you when she lost her job?
When she had to feed her kids,
When she transitioned from General Assistance
To prison and prostitution?

Is your budget balanced now?
Say War
Say Drug War,
Say Blackwater
Try to locate all of our current wars on a map

Did you forget the streets?
Right here...
At home, in your neighborhood
Or has supply and demand economics
Trumped your compassion for humanity?

Don't worry, I still love the streets

But I'm more cautious now
More complacent now
Feel more alone now

For One Shot Wednesday

Monday, February 14, 2011


I was submitting this for one stop poetry based on a prompt by this amazing photo from Sean McCormick but unfortunately missed the deadline by a few minutes. Either way, thought that I would post it and his photograph as well.


I've seen you before
Looking through what was once
Glass, now dismantled
And I'm all naked

I hate that you can see me,
My American homestead
My American dream,
It smells like failed tax relief

It smells like broken promises
It smells like drinks all around
At the bar
It smells like it's all stagnant here

I can still see you, through the window
'Neath the horizon,
Scarred from personal battle
One that I may have caused

There is safety here in this facade
So I can watch you walk away
From the rotting wooden enclosure
That makes me feel protected

And get a glimpse of what it would
Be like to have nothing, which I have
For this, I am happy as this road,
Only I alone can lead.

For One Shoot Sunday

My Ghost Town

The town that I created all on my own
From the South Side of Stockon,
Near the laborers and Caterpillars and
Punjabi man who always had a smile,

It began there, Underneath the
Rice-burnt summer skies
And an endless horizon of nothingness
And potential promises.

Continuing down the interstate
In the vastness of it all, and in a rented truck
With a cat sitting on my lap
The inevitability of the future was fuel

Consistent sun, celebrity connections,
Something about the tinsel and that white
Sign made me me understand camaraderie
And the stories that my mother used to tell about transvestites.

But ocean life was short-lived and Redondo was no more
Dank, stag-like, hamburger helper residence near LAX
Resemblance of hope dissipated like loneliness
I had come to terms with my existence.

Hurried escape from the smog to the fog,
I didn't know why I was running all of the time
Or from what other than from myself
Until I had a glimpse of the Bay and knew that I would die there.

Donning a shirt and tie I tried to fit in
To society, to live the American Dream, whatever that was,
I used wikipedia to help me understand but only
Learned about manifest destiny and 2.5 children and a dog.

I asked my boss if I could dye my hair blue and when she said
No, I asked about the color purple but to no avail.
Economy was driven by capital and I found out that we had none,
I wore jeans and a T-shirt on my last day when I collected my things.

Richard called me incessantly on my phone,
Doing his job as compassionately as he could given his circumstances
And wondering when the rent would be paid,
But I had nothing, no answer for him other than lies.

Creeping in the middle of the night, staring out at the full moon down
Geary Street, I left the American dream and wondered
What the politicos were up to at this hour, but reckoned,
That I created this ghost town myself and instead found rest on the streets.

For One Shot Wednesday

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Existential - For Harrison Towne

I'm fidgeting, nothing seems to stand still
I'm all...Itchy.

Looking out my window and to the left I see the university
Dorm rooms stacked like public storage in little boxes
But filled with hope and opportunity.
I reminisce for such ignorant bliss.
Intellectually ignorant stimulating bliss.
Coffee shop girl hopes to transfer but was denied.
She said, couldn't cut it.
Just wait honey, I wish I could tell you that it
Gets better I said, but I can't.

I'm tired of eating alone
In my room and staring at memorabilia
Of success other than my own.
I find myself hustling more than than that
Girl standing outside of the Flint club in
North Beach on Broadway.
But at this juncture, it's all that I can do to -
The routine of it all has become like meditation.

But my mind is blank when I stand 'neath the
Stockton tunnel and wait, to push past old ladies
With pink, plastic bags who always seem to be in a hurry
To go somewhere, I'm not quite sure if I'll ever understand.
There must be a sale on ginseng or black fungus I reasoned.
Or, it has something to do with their existential upbringing -
And my altruistic nature shushes my inner voice and
I think about coffee shop girl because she has an
Air of innocence about her.

I can't tell her what it will be like and can only
Pray that it will be easier for her than for someone of the
Likes of me – or for the other majority of no-souls in the
Neighborhood who have lost their wives to cancer,
Who pine for aging has-beens, stuck like cement in their
Ways, jabbering about the times when they had a 34 inch waist.
Or more tragically, the few that have lost their sanity,
Subscribing to a facade of a life that the world has told
Them that they should fight for.

It's all just a dream and I'm tempted to just say,
Fuck you – I don't want any of it, you can have it all.
Then I realized that I don't quite know who I'm talking to.
Either way, it's not my place to judge and besides,
I was taught something about judging lest they be
Judged at Vacation Bible school as a child.
Even the most feeble understanding of anthropology or
Humanistic values dictated that I needed to
Keep my mouth shut or my brain to myself.

And for others like Harrison Towne, who is shunned by most of the
World and who is trying to learn how to live in their own
Skin without completely shedding it off for something unfamiliar,
Is unfortunately far too familiar.
The epitaph may have already been written by someone
You don't even know, however, it does not determine your subsistence.
And while I will always think of you, coffee shop girl,
I will bask in your purity and persevere to
Absorb your impeccability.

San Francisco, 2011

For One Shot Wednesday