N  a  p a  l  m     H  e  a  l  t  h     S  p  a  :     R  e  p  o  r  t     2  0  0  8






Good Sign


Beth cut hair out of her Mission St. apartment.  She was a big girl, tattooed, jet black hair

and red lipstick in Goth nod, and she was married to Gomez, a butcher from Mexico, who

for some reason didn’t have a green card, probably because they never could make any

deadline or appointment that would give it to him. 


Problem was, Gomez was abusive.  For 9 years he’d punched her for just about anything

he could think of.  The bruises rarely if ever showed.  None of Beth’s friends or hairstyle

clients knew anything about it.


Gomez got a role in a local indie movie and this made him think he was a star.  He didn’t

want Beth to go the local premiere but she thought he was kidding.  Gomez really did

want to go alone (she later thought because he didn’t want to share the spotlight, but I

suspect he was looking for some new trim, no pun intended). 


Well, she went anyway and when they came home and walked in the door he turned and

punched her twice in the eye and took this campy Jesus statue they had and broke it on

her body.  He hit her so hard in the eye she thought she’d gone blind.  She did, for a bit. 

She called the police as she’d done before.


When she went downstairs from the 3rd floor to let them in the gate, there was something

about their vibe that made her pause.  They didn’t like that.  There were way more cops

than she ever anticipated, at least 2 squad cars with flashing lights and some more cops on

foot.  She was right about their vibe.  When she opened the gate, they cuffed her and led

her away.  She was barefoot and wasn’t wearing a bra under her t-shirt.  She wasn’t ready

to go out into the night.  She didn’t even get to lock her apartment door.  She’d also had

too much to drink.


Gomez came back while they were taking Beth away and walked right into them.  He had

decided to use the “What’s this, officer?” approach and act like nothing had happened. 

They took him away too.


Beth actually knew some of these cops, because they were local.  That didn’t do any

good now.  She was chained to a wall for 10 hours without water.  It was very cold. 

They gave her some old dirty socks for her feet. No blanket, though.  Beth said the female

cops were the worst. 


Eventually they put her in with the recently captured crack whores.  One was a white girl

with dreads, but claimed to be a skinhead affiliate.  Beth asked about the dreads, since the

white girl, a runaway who voraciously read, was spouting all sorts of Neo-Nazi rhetoric

and Beth wondered why she’d picked the dreadlocks if she hated blacks so much.  The

reason was utilitarian.  Still, the neo-Nazi girl knew that some of the black women,

trustees who’d been in a while and were allowed to roam relatively free in exchange for

cleaning the place, would find the shit she’d pinched off in the shower.  They did, and

they thought it was Beth at first.  Beth’s bad day looked like it was about to get worse,

but fortunately they figured out that Neo-Nazi girl did it.  No witness as to what

happened to her sorry Nazi ass. 


Monday finally rolled around, and after being seen in cuffs by some of her own hairstyle

clients who worked the local precinct, they let her go now two days later and all charges

were dropped.  Not before the girl cop moved her for processing, though, putting the

cuffs on Beth’s wrists so tight that her hands turned blue. 


Beth went home on the morning bus.  She had a little orange band on her wrist from jail. 

It meant a free bus ride.  Whoo-whoo!  They also gave these oversized flip flops for her

bare feet.  It was a long walk to the bus stop.  She hung her head on the bus and vibed

“Please don’t look at me.”


When she got home, the apartment door was still open.  She discovered that clients had

come for their appointments and found this weirdness.  They never returned, despite her

explanations.  Some people. 


Gomez was sent to Arizona for deportation to Mexico.  He was there for 2 months

before he agreed to voluntarily go back across the border.  Otherwise, he might very well

still be there. 


It was of course a very good thing for Beth, who once away from him without any

possibility of getting him back in the country, experienced enormous relief, though she

hated to be alone.  She fixed that pretty quick, but at least the new guy, also Latin, didn’t



The local cops still said hello like nothing had happened.


She got a banishing candle from the local botanica.  When she burnt it, she saw a black

shape like a medium sized dog with a blanket over it scoot out of the closet and go out the

door.  Good sign.








Around 1971, I’d spent the summer drawing an autobiographical cartoon for an

underground comic my new friend artist R. (Rory) Hayes said he was putting out.  He

eventually nixed my comic, but anyway, in one panel, I had pictured myself jacking off

and spurting a load and had drawn a big grotesque veiny cock like I’d see R. Crumb and S.

Clay Wilson do.  The girl I was sleeping with, an older girl, said “That’s not your cock,

Marc.”  Uh-oh. 


So over the years we guys hear about it – it makes a difference, it doesn’t make a

difference, over and over…like pulling petals from a flower loves me loves me not though

it felt like wings from a fly. 


In my own case, I was a little guy, 5 foot six, so if you slept with me you weren’t

expecting the wang of death and some just expressed relief that it was average.  Sometimes

I got better than average, but let’s get down to basics - at its hardest it’s 6 ½

 inches and I could never quite figure how to measure the girth, but that was decent, a

good fistful…


Alas, I was a grower not a shower and it was not impressive flaccid, generally hiding like a

turtle…looking good when I took off my pants in the bathroom mirror but immediately

retracting in the air – I obviously needed some tropical wet clime for it to dangle



Of course, porn made me realize what a big cock was.  Over the years, it seemed an 8

incher would do the trick, not too big for the smaller women, hopefully – big enough to be

a contender, at least in the hetero world…


Eventually I read about the pump in “Ask Isadora”, a sex column in the Bay Guardian

long since retired, probably because Isadora had no business giving anyone advice.  But

she seemed convinced the pump worked, though later she was more evasive. 


The pump, in all its variations, in case you don’t know, is a cylindrical plastic chamber

with some manner of squeeze bulb to create a vacuum.  You get a hard-on, insert your

dick and pump away.  It starts to look like a purple cucumber.  Impressive it is, Yoda

might say.  But then he was green and warty, so perhaps a poor judge.


Imagine using one of these and then you see it as a joke in the first Austin Powers movie,

1997.  The international man of mystery had one with a British flag on it.  My friend

Peter knew I was using one and asked “How did that feel?” seeing it in the movie.  Eh. 

Could be vorse.  I knew if the thing worked, there’d be a line around the block for it.


The first one I tried was queer friend Thom’s.  He’d bought it as a kind of sex toy –

although how this was a toy will remain for others to explain.  It was quite cheap,

probably would break easily over [repeated] usage.  But I saw how it worked and decided

to sink some dough into Dr. Joel Kaplan’s superdick machine.  He had ads everywhere. 

No it wasn’t called the superdick machine but you get the idea.  As I recall, it was

something like $200, and this was 10 years ago.  It actually was considerably better

looking that Thom’s.  It looked like some sort of transparent Brita water filter  not

really – but that level of sleek plastic tech.  Those giant test tubes that aliens put you in. 

After you pumped up your wang you were supposed to put on Dr. Joel’s cock ring and

keep it erect like that.  I always had trouble with cock rings, never seemed to be able to

get the supertightness they required, which I gather was nearly as tight as a rubberband

holding the Sunday paper.  The idea of holding your swollen purple dick with a

rubberband was somewhat unnerving, but not nearly as unnerving as the occasional

problem” the pump had, which caused a sort of bubblegum bubble of flesh to form out

of your foreskin.  THAT was unnerving.  Thankfully, it went down quickly, although I

can cut to the chase and say the only lasting effect the pump had was to stretch my

foreskin – which was already a slight cuff of flesh left by the gentile equivalent of an

apparently drunken moil.  So I probably doubled that cuff of flesh, unrolled that cuff as it

had been rolled.  Still, it was not like I had one of those snoods like an uncut European,

more like a lipstick holder for the lipstick cockend itself.  In short, a total waste.


To this day I still hear of all kinds of pseudoscience about getting a bigger dick.  There are

hints of dangerous but effective plastic surgeries, to say nothing of ridiculous pills and

other devices that, once bitten, twice shy and now married, I never gave any credence to. 


What can I tell you?  Nearly 54, you stop giving much of a rat’s ass about such things. 

Such are the comforts of old age, of which there are few. 


In the documentary Zoo, we learn about how “Mr. Hands” died from a literal horse cock

up his ass.  He’d done it quite a bit, but this time, like Catherine the Great, it went a little

wrong. (On line, I actually saw footage of him taking that python up his butt, a magic

trick topped only by the visceral grunt he gave when it sank completely into him)   I

dunno, it somehow says something about never getting enough, when enough, in some

many ways, means when you’re dead.






Touching the Void mountain

climbing book read by Berkeley intense young man

void opens from tunnel over concrete veins of highway

FORTUNE COOKIE fast delivery ghetto

red motor chair Granny diabetes taking a spin

portly East Indian man, buzz flat top cocks eyebrow corny wrestler

daring action (in deeper fear)

eyes locking w/ me –

he thinks the world bullies him – perhaps right –

but this wrestling match already lost

“& the winner is…Decay!”


Earth Bearing Witness 8 centuries of the Buddha

glass case statues on the way into security

airport checkpoint I pause – look at them all

“Crowned Buddha”

Black Crown Karmapa for sure

on my trip to Seattle to see his new 17th face

Whisper Transmission Tibetan lineage Head


clear, unlocatable, nondiscursive,

naked emptiness-awareness

 is the authentic lama”

        Jigdral Yeshe Dorje


Virgin America’s purple–lit air cabin reading

William Gibson’s latest cyberpunk novel –

which happens in the present –

electronica music in the toilet – a

trumpet doing a mediocre stab at Miles –

I could be frightened in this Bardo

Distance to go

73 miles – red jet on USA map –

Google journey graphics back of the

heardrest in front of me


In the bathroom mirror I am shocked that I’m old


But the smell

\in the airporter bus is the same

from last century

 like a pink chip in an old urinal


-          Karmapa in America

-          Panic in the Disco

-          Return to Forever




-          - Paramount Theater marquee 5/31/08 Seattle, WA


Later in the Seattle bar

back of seat sticker

crossbones dakini?



Hawaii islandspeak “the word you use when you don't use the word”

But the waitress did have a Buddha tattoo

giving me sugarless Red Bull –

in 2 weeks 2 days sober 23 years

3 times w/ 17th Karmapa

3rd time by invitation only

he acknowledged he was

back will be back

like Groundhog Day” movie said

Dzogchen Ponlop –

over and over

(“But he does it for us”)

Bill Murray actor returning

vast space Karmapa

in Seattle of the skateboard

homeless punks of

gloomy sky

every 3rd on crank

I’ve heard though already

apparent their

harsh energy


Exploring the night by myself

mad professor in the all ages club

where The Melvins played

The Black Angels

I am a Black angel

of the Black Crown Karmapa

I wrote Black Leather Tantra

and was old even then


but I still like this dark planet

 illumined black light

glowing purple

in a dream

in a skull


Skywalking night

Space Ghost Coast-To-Coast


Soon I leave your physical form

O Karmapa

less soon I leave mine

talking to the 20 year old w/ Dharma parents

born in Halifax saw Trungpa Rinpoche when he was 5

He pieces together my Naropa U. backstory

“You knew Allen Ginsberg?” he guesses


“You’re old school!”

Gave him my card after we sat

took Chenrezig empowerment together


looked at my ticket – I’d sat in wrong seat, wrong row & nobody’d come

Over and over we come back for us

I’m the Black Angel of the Black Crown

over and over

I’ll eat less meat

though skull cup runneth over

Over and over 

like Groudhog’s Day he does it for us

and the world needs help


Black angels unite

coast to coast

10 directions

black light poster

peace sign skateboard

down from the sky