Letter from San Francisco (1995)

Re-reading 1993's "The Truth the Dead Know, and Don't" (below entry) gave me insight into my self 25 years ago, when I was passionate about a deep loss, passionate about poetry, trying to figure out my mental state with words that I was still good at.

At 53 today, I'm not so passionate about anyone or about poetry. I only partially regret my loss of wanting others, although I fully regret my current lack of good eyesight and good hair. (I keep taking vitamins, and keep hoping that in doing so, all lost faculties will come back.) I'd forgotten how much I missed poetry.

Here's another poem, this one from 1995, written when I was in grad school in San Francisco, missing an older man, my former boss, whom I'd been sleeping with back home in Austin. Not that good as a poem at all, like I think "The Truth" is, but still. I miss feeling like that and being able to write anything, however bad, about it.


Letter from San Francisco
(60 Degrees and Raining on a Football Night in Texas)

What I've lost looks drastic from this end.
More in moments of beer, I admit, but still.
In your absence I've crashed, flashed back to every bad teacher, bad parent
I've ever had. And I'm thirty, thirsty, not dead yet, like every idol: but tired.
(And alone, having voted with my feet, cast things off, as required.)

Here, the uniform comes in all colors.
My South = Slaves. My Germany, Nazis all.
Solo-Nazi, I sleep alone, persecute Jews and everyone
with my absence, watch skin shrivel, warts grow, wrinkles crease
former sex places (eyes especially). Open borders age me, rage
and boredom, heartland bomb-blasts, but no earthquakes to brag of back home.

And it's one, and I'm sleepy but shouldn't sleep yet --- quiet hour precious,
neighborless, breathless, beery. Brand new CDs keep me company,
last 'til three at least, maybe four, maybe
eight more months, count this down, say "'bye"
to this town, all million sloe-eyed stacked heels (and no soul).

What I miss is kissing ---
you, specifically, your mouth, your hands, your
bravado, cowboy in Switzer ways the Sieferts here would mock.
Where you are, it's "60 degrees and raining on a football night in Texas" ---
Your phone-voice so pure. Here, boys don't wear boots, or open doors, nothing lit,
but still ads for bigger dicks in the Sports pages.