Kathleen Fraser drank all my sizzurp.

I was descending through the bowels of a slave ship.

Jean-Claude Van Damme was King Richard The Lionheart.

I misremembered a thong leotard.

I woke up at 4AM shouting Aguirre: The Wrath Of God!

I thought Tuesday night's earthquake was an old woman trying to climb through my bedroom window.

Fran Herndon is everywhere lately.

I've never been invited to read at the Bay Area Poetry Marathon. Blessing?

Clayton Eshleman will be in the Bay Area.

What's wrong with being masculine? What's wrong with loving "Lynch, Cronenberg, and Jodorowsky?"

I'm still eating leftovers from Sunday.

I love these photos of Frances Bean Cobain.

Bashar as-Assad, Muammar Gaddafi, BART Police!

I hold an irrational disgust for Sal Castaneda, some people remind me of eggs, or pickle juice, he reminds me of bagel-farts and church slacks.

Is that synesthesia?

SPD's perpetual bestseller is a book about gardening.

I hope no one thinks I'm a creep when I run the Piedmont track.

Is The Maximus Poems really an Epic?

"The city" is not a character.

How many Bay Areans does it take to screw in a light bulb? Hella've em.