Life don't work that way - you know - the fun way. New writing;

Canto Which Will Have Its Revenge on San Francisco

There’s an odd window on 22nd street
and Valencia reminding itself
of Marmoud Darwish, of the brutality

of fashion trends and Newton’s posthumous law
regarding Indiana Jones. Bricks and mortar
are not the flipside of shrapnel

but the edge of the coin, blood
and dust a false haze in the Lebanese
sky. It reminds itself of confusing

anecdotes about skirts and sideburns. Potted
plants in abundance whose leaves grow
in the shape of the doggy paddle and roots

thick like ugly hair. It reminds itself
of alcoholism and manic depression and flimsy
“whats her names” sewn punk rock style

with dental floss into old trunks
in the attic. Joshua trees and the right
to return and the desire to leave. Pavement

and skin share secrets and whisper arias
into telephone wires. It reminds itself that ideals
are hard to hold when they fight back with both

fists. It reminds itself of the western sun breaking evening
clouds like postcards without postage. It reminds itself
of a similar sun in a similar sky,

only having to do with chewing gum and baseball cards. It
reminds itself of guitar string waterfalls, the taste
of feta cheese or too much honey. There

were editorial pages from dozens of newspapers
torn to shreds in bicycle spokes and a lone
cartoonist hanging from the crescent moon

and praying to God someone will catch him. It reminds
itself how loss feels going down, a rum of bent
forks, and hunger, and the perverse happiness

of emptiness and appetitie. It reminds itself of a woman
whose heart was a broken Rubix Cube. There
was wondering; whether or not Emily was pregnant

and being too scared to ask her, but if she was
she really shouldn’t have been drinking. It reminds
itself of the radio and the time putting

head to desk because of all people Doctor
Phil was right. There were hardships working
the checkstands in those days, and the feeling

of foodstamps leaving the pocket as ten
people behind avert their eyes. It reminds itself
of limitations, and how both Popeye and grandpa

used to say, “I y’am what I y’am.” It reminds
itself that anger accompanies hope in much
the same way grainy amateur footage accompanies

Bigfoot. The sky was loose with the illusion
of autumns and I sat alone in a theatre, a human faultline
with no viable plate techtonics to explain itself.