drinking strange dregs of coffee in a bittersweet day of cloudy humidity, i am the only one awake in a household of silence, sleep, thought.

yesterday was stumbling through chinatown to the hang ah, eating dumplings and inventing a new fetish, was changing buses and standing in the transbay looking at the 10 idling on the curb, was sweet discovery and a loss of rational thought.

cake was eaten.

across the bay the city of san francisco is swathed in sleepy fog like the twisted sheets of a long night, sprawled out from the bridge like tentacles. i am almost certain that there is not a precise word to describe the emotion i am feeling right now.

on friday night a man in front of the berkeley bowl wrote a poem for me, about yellow watermelon. i should post it.

he sits on a bench under a tree by the front door with a sign that says “poems about anything” and i say “what about watermelon, yellow watermelon,” and the giant disc of the sun is setting behind me and he pulls out a receipt and slips it into his typewriter and we stand there dripping with fruit juices while he types.

he says it’s a good gig.

there is a strange peace and stillness here which goes beyond sunday morning, a sense of being in the city but not of it and rusting hulks of things skulk in the back ground like zombies.

sometimes i think i should never leave.