Instead of keeping a diary like a serious writer, I used to write songs.  Kayo generally approved of the comments I made on his behalf to reporters, but what he approved of most was my telling them “No comment.”  

Note to Robbie Peele

You asked me about Welfare Fraud
All I saw was very poor
victims of the drug war
no comment 

Ask me about Diane
‘s daughter or the mayor’s plan
On behalf of Hallinan:
no comment 

Ask me about runways
runninway deeper into the bay
what would David Brower say?
No comment no comment no comment


Willie Brown took the American flag
Turned it into a shopping bag
Come on baby let’s go downtown
Spend a little, spend a lot
Bring your card for medical pot
Let’s spread a few dollars around

Gray Davis told the National Guard
Stand on the bridge and look real hard
At every SUV Frisco bound
Might be nothing you can do
But the camo’ed sight of you
Will spread a few dollars around

Rudy went to ground zero,
turned into a national hero
Only yesterday he was a clown
Talks the talk, walks the walk,
Come on to New Yawk New Yawk
And spread a few dollars around

George Bush is shrewd and bold
Don’t talk down to an 8-year old
About the evildoers underground
Take a pen, write a card
To a pen pal in Kandahar
Spread a few dollars around

Congress votes billions more
Whatever it takes gotta win the war
And keep the economy sound
Pay by card, pay by check
It’s all made in China so what the heck
Let’s spread a few dollars around

Inner Sunset

I used to have the real estate knack
but all that I gaineth, I giveth back
only to wind up with you in this cozy old
shack in the Inner Sunset years

Obviously I did everything wrong
Except one or two that strung me along
the road to a club called Chez Nancy Wong
—a shack in the Inner Sunset years.

Where there’s noodles at midnight
if you are in need of a treat
Where the Judah car makes an ‘N’
‘n careens down the street

I still believe that it’s all within reach
a big enough place between here and the beach
and from each and according to each
a shack in the Sunset in the sunset years

The blood orange sunset years…
The cool gray sunset years

No Comment 2

No comment on if they’re together
Can’t say if he’s still into leather
Jaxon’s persistent but I am consistent
no comment

No comment concerning personnel
About the budget —too soon to tell
If I could reveal the terms of the deal
I would but no comment

journalists digging in, digging for leads
my no comment has three speeds

No comment on the Act-Up faction
no comment on the fucked-up action
to matier and ross on behalf of the boss
no comment

No comment on if there was a threat
to Kimberly or to the vet
From Pelican Bay I can earnestly say
no comment

Rob Selna, Rob Roth, Bob Melrose
I can handle any question they pose

No comment while they’re still at large
can’t say what the DA will charge
and about the wild scene in Department 19
No comment


Every Gradation of Gray

Undercover cops working the Haight nod and look quickly away

I’m window shopping in a mist of dismay And everything is every gradation of gray

I’m a vintage man in a vintage store I’m ready and willing to pay

For a brown Borsalino seven and an eighth But everything is gray

The telephone lines are dripping like pines The waves are throwing off spray

The city’s cold fist is clenched in the bay And everything is gray

Even the music they sell on CDs And the clubs so loud and gay

And the lillies and tulips in your bouquet Every one is every gradation of gray

A fast shallow creek slides down the street Where Lyon lies down on Clay

Goodbye San Francisco I’m leaving today When everything is every gradation of gray.


Haul of Justice

There’s a big gray building Eight-fifty it’s called
In the name of justice, that’s where people get hauled

Thirty judges in their courtrooms, two floors for the cops
Plus the sheriff, the DA, the morgue, and the jail on top.

They say “good guys” and “bad guys,” white hats and black
Walk into any courtroom, any morning, look who’s sitting in back.

Eight hundred and fifty that’s how many tears
The average person’s gonna cry when they walk in here

At Café Roma the defenders and the DAs dance
It’s a dispo disco, they know the steps, nothing’s left to chance

Eight-fifty days away from my wife
Eight-fifty days away from my life