Steele

          Steele could feel history in the hands touching his face
 repeating themselves.

They touched his body without touching him.

  A kind of hollow indulgence Steele had become accustomed to

 in his marred, drunk mind

 which he had long ago permitted to thrive in the absence of 

true affection.

  Both could not recall the others name

 but remembered how to unbutton pants with one hand

 and unbutton with the other

 the shirt of their nameless partner.  

          Steele met this one after finishing a 2 am. meal
at Little Orphan Andy's Diner

 chicken fried steak being his favorite meal 

 Little Orphan Andy's being the only diner
in the Castro still serving it after midnight.

  He went threw the kitchen down a small flight of stairs

 to the bathroom

 unaware that a virile Indian man was quick behind him.  

         "Sorry I didn't see you there,"  said Steele

 they both reached for the once copper door knob

"you can go first." 

          They looked each other up and down

 after a short time deciding to go in together

 to leave together

   to sleep together.  

          When they finished

 the caramel colored man was fast asleep

 leaving Steele sitting on the strangers bed

 the only light coming from a dim lamp on the edge of a night stand

 which casted a red loneliness on the walls and on his skin.  

He could see hand prints on his torso

 stamped with warming lube

 he pretended for a moment that the lingering sensation was a real hand

 extending a warm touch.  

          Finding himself in these types of situations often

 Steele would pass the quiet hours in which sleep never came

 picking out nicknacks tenderly placed about the room

 by the strange men who invited him in.

 He looked for a long time at a picture frame

 beneath its glass a photo of the sleeping man snoring beside him

he was standing next to an old woman 

dressed in traditional Indian garb

.

          The woman bore a bendi on her forehead

 her hair turned gray by sun

 thinned by age

her teeth fiercely perfect

 broke from a smile backed with a lifetime of love

for the man which her arm rested upon.

  Steele noticed in the picture 

that the man sleeping next to him

 was slightly older than the one in the photograph

 his jaw line less jagged and more plump.

  He imagined the old woman to be the man's grandmother 

that the picture was taken during a religious ceremony.  

Pulling from his memory

 the sounds of Indian music he had heard in Bollywood movies

 and Indian restaurants

  he imagined himself there dancing with the women 

behind the two smiling faces. 

          Steele also noticed that by an old oak desk in the corner

 scattered on the wall it faced 

were hundreds of sticky notes with English words and their definitions

 written on them in fantastic swirls of handwriting not from this country.

         

       One of the sticky notes read;

         Withdrawal:
        noun
           removal; retraction.

          Steele carefully and quietly dressed himself before sitting at the oak desk.

  By red light and the sounds of snores 

 morning street cars passing by a dawning window

 he picked up a Hindi-English Dictionary

 resting on a pile of unread male. 

Translating the words "thank you, goodbye" 

the best he could into Hindi, on a blue sticky note.

          When he had finished writing the note reading,  

"शुक्रिया नमस्ते," 

Steel stuck the note to the photo of the old woman and let himself out.

          

Not a sound was made.

Time Difference

I do not like
being at the mercy of telephone rings,

counting them, knowing after enough of them,

I will not speak to him before sleep.

There is a time difference.

Even though I have not a speck of an idea what it is

that I am doing with him, seeing as how he lives 

1,500 miles away in a town I ran
1,500 miles away from,
I call.

At times, growing in regularity, I find myself reaching

for the towel of relief.
Relief from the ravaging of my brain for an answer

that is buried in a small crevasse in my heart,
which knows exactly what it is I am doing with him.

That small crevasse has a small stream, where there 

was once a canyon, and before it became dry,

it was filled with waves of youthful whims, 

the current of which was strong enough and 

far reaching enough, to have once carried me 

from Kansas City to Chicago.

People tend to dry out when exposed to already parched hearts,

and mine has nearly dried in my pursuit of a solitude.
I found it.

But there is a small fissure in my heart

and in it a dying stream,

and sometimes he fills a bucket 

and pours himself into that stream,

and I for him.

That stream,

it knows the answer
but I do not.

Sidewalk Santa

           Business men read their morning paper, folding them like tacos, sardined against each other in the train car.  No one is without head phones not even me.  No one is without something to stare at, a book, a news paper, a phone.  People will do anything to forget their morning commute, an hour pressed against a strangers shoulder requires either an admirable set of social grace or the more popular ability to acknowledge nothing but what is in ones hands; sometimes feet. 
          I look at the words above the seats by the sliding door of the train, they read, "Federal Law requires that these seats be made available to seniors and people with disabilities."  To the right of those words is a woman comfortably in her sixties on her way to work, yielding a brief case and a cane.  I wonder to myself, given that it is 7:30am what time she must wake up to put makeup and clothes on.  She moves slowly, and I agree with myself after a carefully worded debate that she must wake up at 5:05am, the reason for the :05 is that she allows herself one snooze, the five minutes of which she does not sleep; she just thinks about work.  In the seat next to those words sits a man comfortably in his thirties pretending not to notice her struggle to stand as the train stops and takes off, his socks match, his lapel is new and just the kind of man you'd figure to lay out his outfit before bed.   I could give the old woman my seat, but I'm tired and my compassion does not stir for yet another hour.
          I get off at the 16th Mission B.A.R.T which is notoriously dangerous but given the time of day I had hoped the 8:00am light would shine away the horrors of the Mission, but crime and poverty do not sleep; they are always awake twirling their thumbs on bubble gum benches and making hand puppets in the shadows of street light brick.  There is an art gallery I hope to place my art in near this stop, my canvas's protrude from my backpack as a declaration of my artistic undertaking and for a moment I worry that they will be stolen. 
          I arise to the streets of the Mission from the depths of underground transportation and within seconds witness a cracked out man steal as much produce as he can carry from a small storefront and a homeless man feed pigeons off his lap and hands, the birds pecking at the grains fallen in his beard.  I walk briskly with the cold and see a man across the street puke onto the cross walk, and the pigeons who have tired of grain swoop in to clean it up.  It was Heroin puke.  There is a difference between Heroin puke and alcohol puke.  Heroin puke usually does not have food in it, but when it does it is only minutes after being consumed, leaving undigested, half chewed food glazed in stomach acid sprawled out in a pigeon buffet on the concrete.   Alcohol puke is mostly liquid and ultimately scoffed at by city birds.  They can't teach you these things in College.
          I decide to meet my friend Krista for breakfast in the Castro District a mile up hill, I figure I'll wait until there are more witnesses before I make the pilgrimage to the art gallery.  I get passed by a man in possession of the most beautiful ass I have ever seen and I struggle for six blocks to not loose the sight, but his walk is my run and I can't keep up.  Everyone in this city has legs and ass's of Gods and walk up steep hills as if rolling down them.  I however take cigarette breaks half way up a hill, on Van Ness I take several. 
          I meander by doorways that despite the frigid cold, smell of urine; I pass, despite the cold, boy prostitutes wearing shorts so short their butt cheeks jiggle underneath the cut off seams, exposing fleshy goosebumps and scuffs from side walk slumbers.  I encounter sidewalk Santas, one asks me, "Can I have 13 cents?"  I tell him I have no money with an apologetic tone and he screams through his white turned brown beard, "Then get a fucking job faggot" and tries to spit on me.  Another Santa leans against the brick of the Castro Theater beside his mobile home shopping cart stolen from a local pharmacy.  Sitting on his shoulders is a full grown tabby cat which he affectionately calls Allen while scratching its bedraggled head.  On the corner of Castro and market, a group of homeless men huddle for warmth between the trolly and sidewalk chairs which during the summer, before the ban on Nudity last month, naked men congregate over coffee. 
          The morning light beams through buildings and I see twin peeks from where I stand but in spite of the beauty I can't take anymore.  Like a kid playing tag, I retreat to base in a coffee shop.  The bars are not open yet, and I could go for a Hot Toddy.  Krista meets me at the coffee shop unfazed by the trenches she has just walked through to get here, her purse loosely hanging from her shoulder.  People that live here or that are from here, show no signs of fear or sadness when they see what I have just seen.  It is part of every day, part of the charm inner city San Fransisco has to offer. 
          After we drop off this art I plan to go back to the water. 
          Nothing ever bad really happens there.