Thursday, September 19, 2019


me with two of my big brothers, Tommy (becoming Father Campion, Franciscan friar) and Buddy (known to most as Jimmy or James) around 1950. There was another brother (maybe taking the photo) and two sisters, and then a brother who passed as an infant. These two were musicians (reed men) and jokers, always had me laughing. Only one sister and me still alive.

Tuesday, September 17, 2019


That's me, getting ready to take part in a march in my town during the Kavanaugh hearings.
I'm the tall one next to my friend Beth Boily on the march. People all over the country marched, but he still got confirmed. If everyone who believes in women's reproductive rights had voted for Hilary, we wouldn't have had Kavanaugh to worry about. Other things, but not as bad.

Monday, September 16, 2019


Steve Dalachinsky was a New York poet I knew but unfortunately wasn't close friends with. I didn't know him well when I lived there in the sixties at times and later in the seventies. We mainly encountered each other in some meaningful ways after I moved back East at the turn of the century. He was cool, smart, charming, as well as sarcastic in ways that I appreciated.

But after my brain surgery (almost ten years ago) I had trouble with his name sometimes and I don't know if he accepted my explanations and apologies as sincerely the result of my brain crap or if he thought I was just too self-involved. It felt like in more recent years whenever I encountered him we connected more gracefully and it made me happy. I am sorry I didn't get to know him better.

Now he has suddenly been taken from his family and friends and there's no poetic way to assuage the sadness so many are experiencing. My heart goes out to his wife, the multi-talented Yuko Otomo, and to all his many friends and fans.

Here's the last two lines from his poem "As Collage" which seems like a pretty good epitaph to me:

"...& in the end as he so aptly put it
                the THINGS themselves are left to TESTIFY.

[photo by Don Yorty]

Sunday, September 15, 2019


another trans woman murdered
I so hate the insecure baby men who perpetuate these atrocities

Thursday, September 12, 2019

One of my many transformations. In early 1966 and about to turn twenty-four, I had recently finished four years in the military and was living with my first wife, Lee, in the Brooklyn Heights apartment of the backer of a new magazine. The woman editor had offered to be my patron while I wrote "the great American novel" as she put it. This situation lasted about four months until Lee became too jealous of the editor and then my mother died (I shaved the beard that night and vowed to never grow another because she hadn't recognized me as she passed) so we moved to Jersey to take care of my father. The novel was deemed too "experimental" by my patron and was never published.