Albert Finney

He might be my favorite actor of all time. Tom Jones, Orphans, Miller's Crossing, Under the volcano, The Dresser and on. Albert Finney can do NO wrong. One of the best actors EVER!!!
And check out this early handsome picture! ouch!!!

Dianne Wiest

Bullets over Broadway, Hannah and her sisters, the list goes on and on. This woman can do no wrong. Incredibly brilliant!!!! Oops! Law and Order. Eek!

Timothy Spall

Je ne regret rien! have you seen mike leigh's life is sweet? rent it! Timmothy Spall is sooooooooo fantastic in this movie. you must see him. so funny!!! fabulous!

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am i old?
i don't know.
others would
they'd have some system of telling
they'd lift me up by the feet and shake me until everything fell out of my pockets
this would be no easy feet as i am not altogether light or a small person
or maybe they would put a thick piece of glass over my face and inspect the thickness of my skin
the thinness?
maybe they would ask me what might to them be simple enough questions
gauges of wisdom
wisdom that forms the rings around the trunk of an otherwise fully developed and subsequently older being...thing?
but i cant have anyone cut me open.
that shit would hurt
wouldn't it?
no part of me can be read like the bloody quagmire of a witches cauldron
time is only a song the land sings
but i sing all the time
sometimes i cant stop singing
most people think me retarded
i think that's why they have such a tough time of it
i don't know why they need to know
i don't
why do they need to know?

Buildings in San Francisco i love #1

Saint Mary's
Pier Luigi Nervi

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Tomorrow when you awake

I will still be your pervert boy

Sick. Reprobate.

You will try to remember how your knees once felt when you bend to pray

Tomorrow when I awake

I will feel my stomach cringe and my throat will collapse on itself, replenish and ready its armor for more war

You will gargle with salt water

Tomorrow when you awake

You will see her shuffle down the hall, pinched toed, crippled old hag

I will recall that day when she looked like Lauren Bacall, collar raised, her hair a respectful gray, denouncing her own biography

Tomorrow when I awake

I will remember you saying to her;

“Come on ole gal…get up on my shoulders!”

She will laugh and call you Barney!

You will reach for your bible, which you still call your sword

Tomorrow when you awake

You will pray for me, half-mockingly claiming some ill-gotten text about the sins of the father.

I will kiss my lover’s back and thank god he hasn’t left me for the horrible person I am

Tomorrow when I awake

I will pick the scab

You will dab the salve

Tomorrow when you awake

You wont know his name or that we’ve been together for 17 years and counting

I will hate myself for being so cruel

Tomorrow when we awake

We might roll over and go back to sleep

We might lie there thinking of each other

We might taste blood in our mouths

We might

An Old Mare

The old mare is long dead now

At least gone

Maybe her hoof marks have turned to clay

Maybe even they have been blown away

My parents were renting an old house ten miles in from the last stretch of the old country road, hidden below a horizon made of dead birch and walnut trees, the house just down from a small lagoon covered in brown ice, a crust of dead bugs, a funereal robe now and then flickering silver.

No mails came there

You had to drive out into the fog to the small yellow-bricked post office next to the gas station to get your TV guide and gold government checks

After chopping wood that morning my stomach anguished for cornbread and beans

I was staying with my parents for a couple months

Yet again, just trying to get my footing

One night I fell sick and my father laid his hands on me

I was eating his food and sucking up his air so I tolerated his biblical histrionics

The next morning the fever had broken and I awoke on a pillow wet as a cow’s liver

No one seemed to be home, I think dad had taken mom to her pill mill doctor for liniments and morphine

I was all alone

I walked out onto the front porch, screened in with a fine steel mesh netting to contain any last bit of civility that might leak out or be carried away by water beetles

I looked out toward the old creek and tried to listen for its licking, its lapping, its running on at the corner of its mouth

But it had been muted and dried up, mostly, years before

I strained but to no avail

Craning my neck I took in the low hills of clover and cow shit, of wild flowers my mother called Charlie Browns, of mud and burned broken oaks, black as ash, made blacker by the morning dew.

And then in the distance, I could barely make her out, stood an old mare, gray backed and spotted like the cancer on my grandmother’s hands.

She stood in perfect relief.

Perfectly still.

In that moment everything around me froze.

It was all too unreal

I told myself even then

And so, all alone I tried the question out

I sat the hot cup of coffee down on the wooden railing and let out a screeching, high-pitched obbligato which required some effort, effort which seemed to pull my balls upward

Funny anatomical gestures within me

But she did not move

The note echoed through the hills and flew high and out to the next plot of land

I disputed its reverberations and tried again

Again, the mare stood rigid, a post mortem farce.

I could easily let this get to me but I dare not.

I did not.

Again I let one out. Steely and stern and irrefutable.

And just as I’d given up hope on the whole affair, the winding course of sound finally reached her and she, in the mist, as if holding for the cameras, turned.

Her speckled jowls shutter.

Her haunches coil.

Her eyes, sullen and lowed, slowly lift upward, holding. Seeing me from afar.

I feel her gaze.

She, mine.

Winding the top of the bank, my father’s Ford rolls down the gravel driveway.

I take a sip of the coffee, look out for the foal, and she is gone.