Tag Archives: fog


~ 0 ~
SFO in the early morning
triple couple brunch date
SFO in the afternoon
yellow fever film
SFO late at night
Japanese, Mexican, American, or Chinese?

~ 1 ~
Hank Williams on the
turbulent red-eye
flashlights in the early morning
United Club at IAD
hella babies on the
flight to Jamaica
the first Jamaican woman to speak to/about me:
“it’s not fair. he’s not even using it,”
referencing my hair
all customs agents are the same stern
accosted by taxi drivers
one is hella chill so we go w him ($15)
he walks slow as hell
“we grow up w weed”
tried to sell me some but his guy is out
Caribic House
gentleman clerk
third floor balcony view of the sea
buy weed from souvenir shop ($20 for crap)
Pork Pit
buy weed from random vagrant (J$200 for crap)

~ 2 ~
breakfast at the Mocha Cafe
Knutsford Express to Negril
buy Blue Cheese from taxi driver ($5 for quality)
Yoga Centre
stroll and smoke along the beach
the German dude
yoga in the evening
shower and drinks
Alfred’s Ocean Palace
couple drinks and cricket at the Sunrise

~ 3 ~
smoothies and breakfast at the YC
chillin on the beach
spring rolls and papaya salad
Natalie naps / Americanah
drinks at One Love bar
curried conch w rice & peas at sweet spot

~ 4 ~
goodbye YC & Negril
KE to Kingston
wild winding ride east
the big city
the Spanish Court,
free rum punch on arrival
walking in the rain to
Devon House
coffee for her, coffee i-scream for me
walking in the lightening rain
Natalie goes chic in the city
divine Indian at Nirvanna

~ 5 ~
free breakfast: eggs, platanos, festival, bacon, fruit, coffee, water
taxi drive with a former yam farmer to
the National Gallery of Jamaica
walk through saturday downtown market
taxi to the grocery
Tashanna the angel
Natalie runs on the treadmill, i walk to KE
sunset swimming in the freezing infinity pool
hot bath w love
shower the hair
dress and small dinner
last home drink
up up up the hill to
dub club
smoky dub music in the clouds
saw fireworks
and popcorn
and dancing
circles, circling back to a
champagne glass next to the drivers seat
flask of herb wine next to mine
slowly, slithering back to New Kingston
in the nighttime of a new day

~ 6 ~
free breakfast: kitchen sink omelet, fruit, coffee, water, festival, platanos, and a complimentary mimosa
walking to the banks, several failed withdrawals
packing up
waiting for Robert
red shirt, tan truck, big smile
cash out
ride up
the treehouse
the tour
the pool and trail
dinner at 6?
acki and shellfish, peas and rice, greens not calaloo
reading and drinking
scrabble in bed under the net
never ending music for a wake, then an end

~ 7 ~
wake up puffy eyed a little before 9
shirtless on the balcony
big rainbow across the sky
Chef says breakfast is on the way
coffee, scrambled eggs w veggies, fried plantains, breadfruit (looked like dry pineapple slices), slices of mango, a peeled orange, everything fresh, juicy, lovely
more coffee, Bobby and Chef smoking
driving to Holywell
the waterfall hike
smoke at the falls
kiss on the hills
walk to David’s coffee plantation
the Chinese crew, little kids giggling and playing games, the two big dogs loafing and eyeing everyone, the coffee man deeply darkened by the sun yet profoundly lightened by endless cups of coffee
walking back home
Natalie’s forgotten R1: the run
gap cafe too fancy
walk thru the military yard
flask of clear rum, water, cheese puffs, and chocolates at the bubbles stop
walk home
cold shower (Ginger on drums)
wifi, soup, and dinner (more Fela)
seafish, fried carrots and greens, potato, yams, plantains
greasy spliff
drinks and reading

~ 8 ~
up a little earlier, round 830
coffee and breakfast on the taller balcony
acki and fish, breadfruit, fried plantains, papaya, orange
reading reading reading
the ride to Craighton
the $25 tour w Jerome
280,000 coffee plants—arabica not robusta—the latter 52% of the world coffee, the former 48%—though like the #1 most traded good (oil), the #2 (coffee) is often adulterated as there’s no standard nor authority—and Blue Mountain arabica is something special, with 70% of its sales going to wealthy Japanese—Jamaicans themselves drink instant coffee—unless they’re like Robert—usually Arabica ripens in 5-7 months, in Blue Mountains it takes 9-11—juicier, sweeter—Twyman and other north side farmers get less sun so their harvest is shorter
three cups of coffee after the lesson
walk to red light
bananas and coconut snack from the roadside rasta
walk from red light
Natalie loses her shades
hitching a ride w the 33 year old who spent 20 years living in Kingston before moving to London, comes back to visit family every xmas, warned us of the dangers of hitch hiking
eits cafe
walking up and a ride w David, bobby’s coz
walking to prince valley
glasses for a drink and phone
meeting, laughing, smoking w omero from Oakland and Tazia from near Kingston
drinks and dinner: beans, greens, and pumpkin rice, perfection
beer and adieu
reading, reading, hearts, reading

~ 9 ~
up a little earlier, around 815
Ovid on the balcony
coffee and breakfast in the usual spot
acki and fish, plantains, coco bread
packing up and paying
dj dale down the mountain
bob Marley museum
best dinner (fried chicken, beef stew, pork stew, or curried goat?) plus rum
two wedding episodes of friends

~ 10 ~
coffee, toast, and fruit on the balcony
Mahogany Beach
food and drink on James (same menu)
crazy dance boat party TV
Turtle Beach
souvenir shopping i
drinks on James
moms restaurant (fish stew)

~ 11 ~
coffee, toast, and fruit on the balcony
souvenir shopping ii
passage to passage to India (naan, South Indian chicken, chicken tikka masala)
chilling at KE
KE to Mo Bay
El Greco, cocktail on arrival
cocktails and joint on the balcony (Half Pint)
bellboy escort to room, J$400
atm, the old walk
1/2 lb ribs at pork pit
the walk back
another round

~ 12 ~
up around 8
finished Herzog
breakfast: one American, one Jamaican (mine is fried fish, greens, small banana, yucca, dumpling, and Nat’s French toast)
old white retired everywhere
blacks go J, whites go A
down to the street, rum up
packing, Brilliant Corners, checking out
smoke on the cliff side
delayed flight
walk down to the park shade
bk fries
taxi to airport
lines, lines, food court, hearts
exit row flight
chaos at CLT Continue reading

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let the words flow like fog

let the words flow like fog
from the abyss, instilled with meaning
only after traversing a million miles
across the mind, dizzy
with dreams.

let them hang low,
mingling among the trees,
buildings, people, fiends,
dampening and dimming
natural aversions.

let them grow long in lines
from sunrise to sunset to sunrise
hinting at stupor
through deserts of verdure
fueled by our favorite toxins.

dissipate — let them
when they will —
diadem of universal wisdom
pour forth like fate
from thy dripping, inky quill. Continue reading

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IMG_6207 copy IMG_6231 copy IMG_6355 copy IMG_6508 copy IMG_6571 copy Continue reading

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lines written above Muir Beach

does a poem peek thru the morning fog
like the sun with a weary white face?
does it travel a million miles thru the mind
just to vanish in a moment’s gray haze? Continue reading

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who is that man? from the hair on his head to the socks around his ankles, he dons the earth’s colors. is his purpose work or play? what’s the difference? noticing two lovers balanced on his knee, you might strive to find a numerological connection. you might fail. but be forewarned: while you study his gaze and garb, this gentleman’s already somewhere else, skating figure eights across the cosmos. Continue reading

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winter solstice party

in the evening, we stood amidst the bright kitchen and living room lights, sipping on brandy-spiked punch and catching up on all the mediocre unchanged past and infinite, unpredictable future. experiencing slight hunger pangs, many of us slathered fancy spreads on crackers, wrapped up cheeses in smoked salmon, and scarfed down open-face salami sandwiches smeared w dijon mustard. ’twas a veritable banquet!

the middle-aged and beyond were out in full force, making polite conversation and liking each others’ pages on facebook and roping me in to make sure they’d done so correctly. yeah yeah looks fine, i said, not very politely.

as midnight approached, the old people got sleepy and began to slip out.

midnight past, Adam, Cameron, and i stripped down to nothing and hopped in the hot tub. suddenly everything felt more real. Cameron let flee a shriek, and then immediately apologized to Adam for disrupting the suburban peace. it was okay.

over the next hour or two, the three of us bobbed like choice cutlets in the soup, sipping on our brandy punch, puffing on Cameron’s gift of a spliff, and waxing poetic about life, the evolution of humanity, and the universe. past and future worlds swirled through our minds, whirled and twirled through our half-articulate gesticulations. Cameron’s clouds of Venus encapsulated my interstellar agriculture to the point where Adam’s hands grew thick with the soil of the probability of intelligent life forming out of the nothingness that Cameron considered himself when he thought about how he’d lost his job even though i was going to do the exact same thing except intentionally and maybe we should shut up and learn or thing or two about intention from Adam who had unknowingly convinced Morgan to return to school to learn graphic design at the ripe old age of, what are we, 26? golden.

with the night getting late, Cameron and i cruised down the freeway without a care in the world. the only thing he cared about was making his 0600 flight and, quite frankly, it didn’t look like sleep was part of that plan. so at the last minute i veered toward 280 instead of 101, opting for the slower, scenic route. little did i know about the fog’s return. the fog, my old and familiar friend, slunk its heavy wet body across the entire width and length of 280, putting a quiet damper on my desire to be a speed demon. but that was fine; as i said, we were in no rush.

thinking along those same lines, i turned and asked Cameron if he’d like to go to the beach. affirmative.

so once again, at the last moment, i veered toward Skyline Blvd. the speed limit dropped 15 MPH, but the fog grew thicker. thick, thick, thicker still. every mile we advanced, the blank white sheet pulled closer to the windshield… until i couldn’t see more than a few feet of line dividers in front of the car. rain had threatened and teased and attempted, until finally it teamed up with the fog to make the worst possible driving conditions. it was definitely one of those moments where you’re too scared to keep driving but too scared to stop so you just slow down a bit because that feels like a happy medium.

eventually, we arrived at Fort Funston. i quickly confessed to Cameron that it had been my makeout spot since high school. just needed to get that out of the way. also, i needed an excuse to make homoerotic jokes. obviously.

the rain had stopped for the time being, so we only strolled through heavy fog as we mounted the Fort. at the top, unfortunately, we discovered Battery Davis completely flooded. damn shame, because right behind the flood was the entry to my favorite spot in the universe, a precarious little shelf of sand right on the precipitous of the cliff, overlooking the vast and beautiful Pacific Ocean. no matter. we ventured south, briefly encountering some “mizzle,” or what Cameron was calling mist and drizzle and orgasming all over about. the crashes of the sea grew louder and louder until, at last, we gazed at its infinite body. in the mizzle, it truly looked infinite: its waves whitening into sandy banks while its southern, western, and northern extremities faded into black fog, grey night. and yet, we perceived through our peripheral vision tiny dots of light poking through the hazy sheet. as the fog gradually lightened, we became increasingly aware that the bright light to the south was a lighthouse, while the line of lights to the west and north were a highway of shipping vessels separated by inconceivable distances on the vast sea’s surface. it was truly sublime.

we breathed in deep many, many times in silence, staring.

when it was time to go, we went. back the way we came, back to the car, the short ride back to my place, up the stairs, kettle on. i cooked up some buttery popcorn and served us a couple honey-dipped black teas. cozy. before the sun could threaten to rise, i drove Cameron to the airport, tried (and failed) to wake up Natalie for early morning snuggles, and returned to my own bed to pass… the fuck… out.

bless the solstice. Continue reading

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a portrait of Sisyphus as a young fog

black diamond fog peers over Twin Peaks,
bringing along its wet and chill hymn:
reverie for the weary mind that leaks.

the crashing note of sinister antiques
like Sisyphus’ boulder barreling so grim,
black diamond fog peers over Twin Peaks.

endless mystery, mother sans critiques,
the Pacific wind that falls on a whim,
reverie for the weary mind that leaks.

feeling, desiring, she blindly seeks
to pour over the natural city brim,
black diamond fog peers over Twin Peaks.

an unrequited love hidden in her cheeks
dies numb and silent, meek and dim,
reverie for the weary mind that leaks.

gliding airless via senseless techniques,
i recite the mantra of my phantom limb:
black diamond fog peers over Twin Peaks,
reverie for the weary mind that leaks. Continue reading

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Sine Francosine

yes, San Francisco is hilly.

Rincon Hill, Alamo Heights, Telegraph Hill, Russian Hill, Potrero Hill, Presidio Heights, Pacific Heights, Nob Hill, Candlestick Point, Forest Hill, Twin Peaks, Mount Sutro, and–good god–Mount Davidson… and that’s not the half of them!

a longtime Bay Area resident will know that all those hills have been known to stress out potential tourists and residents alike. the former wondering how they’ll explore the city without busting a knee and the latter pondering how they’ll make weekly visits to the grocery store without hating their lives. in spite of all that stress, everyone flocks here all the time and somehow survives.

as someone who regularly bikes about 13 miles through the city commuting to work, not to mention other random lengthy rides that may arise, i believe the secret balm to our hilly ailment resides in one curious little characteristic of hills: they create valleys. riding up a hill on my bike, especially on a round trip ride, means exactly this: i need to work a little harder right now to have a helluva lot of fun later. the only time New Yorkers build up that kind of potential energy is when they ride elevators up to the hundredth floor. and the only way they can transform it into (the much more fun) kinetic energy is by hopping out the window.

it’s not just the landscape. it’s everything.

many people believe that San Francisco has no seasons, but these people–no matter how many years they have or haven’t spent in the city–are thinking on the wrong timescale. in a single day, i have experienced the springtime delight of an Ingleside morning followed by the simmering summer sunshine of the Mission followed by the gusty autumn melancholy flowing down Market and up Geary followed by the cruel winter wind of our lovely Ocean Beach. “the day is an epitome of the year,” what with its hills and valleys.

a city as large as New York has ample room for San Francisco-sized boroughs, each of which is substantial enough for entire peoples and cultures to burrow themselves in, away from anybody too different. in San Francisco, business and political titans like Jack Dorsey and Ed Lee need to step over Vietnam vets and avoid crackheads in order to reach their offices. the homeless sleep at the feet of the rich like valleys at the bottom of hills.

one more notion. i have often heard the argument that 150-year-old San Francisco has no history. no pyramids, no pantheon, no colosseum, nor cathedrals. no storied battlefields and no great halls where declarations, constitutions, and proclamations were signed. nothing to speak of but a little gold, a little Christianity, and a ton of fools. and yet, San Francisco is the living stuff of legends. this seven-by-seven mile stretch of land–and its wonderful neighbors–is changing the world. with a mind melding psychedelic trips, digital invention, and a pioneering sense that we can still go west in our own imaginations, we are changing the world. whether this change is ultimately for the better or worse remains to be seen, but significant change it is. valleys of youth, hills of the future.

perhaps i am only making poor, poetic excuses for why i love this stupid clump of concrete and sand, but there it is. i do love it.

it is like a beautiful song with deep, low bass notes and high, fancy melodies swirling around each other in the most unusual way. after all, what is a song without lows and highs? what is a sound wave but going up and coming down? Continue reading

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Greetings from San Francisco, C.A.

yesterday i almost died while making out.

i’m only exaggerating a little bit because i was most likely mostly in control most of the time. see, i returned to Lands End w my lover, tracing the acidic route from just a couple weeks prior. though we began from an unexpected spot—some hospital grounds—we quickly wandered through eerie WWII ruins, down foggy wet hills, to the very same giant beach rock where my party of five had watched one of the most glorious sunsets of the year. which giant beach rock, you ask?

that one, over there…

yes, that’s the one.

this is Lands End, SF. one does not simply hop and skip over to the giant beach rock without trouble. the only path before you is made of rocks in the water, and each of those rocks is already home to countless starfish, sea anemones, and mussels, which your feet must avoid unless you enjoy bestowing death on creatures of a consciousness you may never understand. we didn’t.

we tiptoed and leaped carefully from rock to rock to rock to rock to the giant beach rock, which we climbed a bit vertically until we could no more. where we paused was a bench of rock with just enough room for two people to plant their little behinds (hardly) and nothing more. in front of us, the way we came, steep, jagged, bare-faced orange rocks, like crumbled slices from the shelf above our heads. behind us, a steep fifty foot drop to several large boulders jutting from the sea’s surface and lined with hundreds of mussels bathing in salt and foam. i.e., death.

sitting and sitting and thinking and feeling and seeing and sitting and sitting in the hazy grey fog, we were at peace. and so we did what any two lovers would do while at peace: we kissed. with my left hand firmly gripping the rock of life, my right hand reached to lightly stroke her jawbone. finger her toward me. kiss kiss kiss kiss in the fog like lights out across the universe, joy up joy down joy swaying all around…

…swaying? Continue reading

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Arrival at Elmira

in which the Hero goes to Oregon! Continue reading

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