It’s been almost a year since Antonio and I biked up Nob Hill and howled at the full moon with all those 200 or so San Franciscans and here is a spoken word recording of the grand borderline fiction it inspired. Marshall Deerfield, front and center with Antonio Bandalini making an appearance, facing the stagnant contrasts of Skid Row in midst of the Tech Boomed-out streets of San Francisco. Here in its entirety is “Howling At The Moon!”, a fraction of a novel about all those wayward zig zags across the west coast last year, but definitely one of my favorite tales to tell.
This was filmed back in April by Andrew Galati at the Random Tea Room in Philadelphia at the book release party for my collection of psychedelic erotica, Fire. Sun. Salutation. It took me a few more weeks to talk out all the tongue ties and stutters of the narrative, but this night in particular still has my heart hanging heavy. Thanks to Becky Goldschmidt for hosting, the other performers for setting the stage, and to everyone who attended. That night we became a bunch of wild wolves hooting and hollering at the muse above. Also thanks to my parents for giving me a quiet place to write these beginnings to a novel that’ll hopefully soon be finished. Without that brief pause from the 9-5 all this material would still be stuck up in my head or randomly notated throughout several journals on some dusty bookshelf.
Anyway, enjoy the lofty imagery and dream-inspired beauty above!
Last night a very beat thing happened to me. I watched a man play a saxophone to the San Francisco Bay under the carpet of stars above, backlit by a whole digital mainframe animating circuit board of city lights glittering like tiny solar systems orbiting the ground here where we stood. I was stoned and a little bit drunk from drinking more than an adequate amount of pirate’s port wine on a friend’s pink sailboat in the marina. We all feeling extra nimble with our loosened bodies we listened snapping our fingers, dancing weird jigs, and tapping our weird feet enjoying being star struck by such a quintessential imagery. It was all very merry and glorious and could’ve gone on much longer, us clown bums and dream punks and country beatniks far from over with the day’s rêvelutions, but then the Weed Ma, she came over to me and she grabbed my attention and she said, “Look, Ma! Look at the way the bay responds”, and that’s when the universe really started to click and snap its fingers back at us taking on that divine curvy glow of subliminal ecstasy.
A crusty on Haight Street asks me if I need any trees. I tell him “Yes, please! Give me the Douglas Firs. Give me some redwoods. Give me some relief. Some humble giants. That’s what I’m working towards. That’s what I live for.”
Another one a few blocks down asks if I want weed. I tell him about the scrub they cut down in the lot that they’re “turning into a farm” next door to me. Right now it looks like a giant mud pile compared to the subtle greenery it once was. I tell him I was worried, but the scrub jay still visits me. I hear his excited call first thing in the morning even before the engine of the bulldozer starts. I tell him about the other song bird I’ve noticed but not spotted yet who rises with the sun and continues throughout the morning singing it’s salutation to the new day happily and hopeful, sounding like a nightingale but displaced maybe not only from it’s normal scrub home into the tree in my neighbors yard but also from night and moon worship into day and the grand melody of being reborn.
An old hippy in a tie-dyed t-shirt asks me for some change. He’s got half a sandwich and a bunch of trash lying next to his bare feet. I give him what I’ve got but tell him I’m feeling pretty grounded. I’m feeling as steady as a mountainside with a glacier cliff face. All that alpine mind of a high yogi. There’s still change, but not as quickly. I got a couple dimes to my name, but that’s all you need when your dream is to soar like the red-tailed hawk of last week in Mendo county.
Ain’t nothing like meditating with the step of your feet. Place one foot in front of the other. All the other stuff follows.
Today some of my traveling haikus were published among the literary stars of the Syzygy Poetry Journal issue no. 2. This special collection has a theme of the eclipsing blood moon we just witnessed only last week. Perfect for an Aries warrior poet… You’ll find me in the constellation Lampyridaen. Enjoy!