I AM LOSING

my hair
the other day
I looked in the mirror
Sid was cutting
my hairs and
she said:
"do you have a receding hairline?"

I looked in the mirror
my hair grows like freaking
Danzig's cowlick
and I am losing
my fucking hair

some cultures believe
your power is stored
in your hair

I am losing
my powers

Sid; is this haircut
the last haircut
I will ever need in my entire
LIFE?

am I going to be
an increasingly bald
powerless sorcerer
for the rest of my existence?

I wanted to ask Sid all this
but I was too scared

some day I might
have some poor soul
trim the lifeless wisps
of my manhood
to make myself feel better

to make myself feel
like I am a normal person
who needs haircuts
just like everybody else
am I turning
into my father?
that fucker!

"Hey can I take your picture?" says Josh.
"Sure."
"What are you writing about?"
"I have a receding hairline."
"You do?"
"Look at THIS."
I show him
my receding hairline
"Do not worry.
Mine is like that, too
it's been like that
for a very long time."
"I'm not so sure."
"It is materlineal
does your mother have a brother?"
"Yes, but he is a junkie."
Josh looks at me.
"No, it means I never see him," I say.
"What about her father?"
"He's not bald."
"Well, there
you go."
"Oh," I say.











CRUDDY

I wrote this poem about you
but really
I could have written this poem
about anyone
and I am headed south
around lake merritt
towards eleventh street

while I move I am thinking
about what I will say
when I get there
"hey. I was nearby your house and--"
I have not called
and I do not want to seem
creepy

in the end I think the worst thing
you can do
is make an excuse
a creep
always
makes an excuse

while I move I am wondering
if all boys think about this
or is it
just me

I get there and all the lights are out
upstairs, your room
is as black
as the sweater I am wearing
the black sweater which I found
discarded on the ground

I head north on Campbell
and I am
a dumb looking white kid
on a brightly painted bike
in a neighborhood
that does not
and should never
belong to me

this is not to say
I should not live here
but even that
simple silent act
might open a floodgate
of white trash

we all know
the real white trash
lives in a condo
and I
am the smelly trickle
that proceeds their gushing grossness

I stop for a moment
on Campbell street
at the house your friends bought
watch them in the night
stripping the floors

I remember helping them--
pulling out carpet staples
with a pair of pliers
screaming
about how I was some sort of eagle
hunting my prey

you were in the house
banging noisily at a crowbar
with a metal hammer

I think about how
Daniel Johnston knows
unrequited love
makes the best kind of art
as I head home across peralta

just how do we know what we know
anyway?

I could have written this poem
about anyone
but really
I wrote this poem about you