Harvey Goldner is a poet neglectorino in the classic sense, his poems rising up out of the fecund Seattle underground wisely irritated with the stupid Republicanized world but lucky enough to remember the 1950 Memphis dreams that Little Richard, Gandhi, and Elvis promised us all. Lunch & Love at the Bardo Sitting at the outdoor Bar & Grill of the Bardo Hotel halfway down Baja California, eating chicken enchiladas, we gaze. Our eyes graze out over the round ocean, our ancestral homestead. The vast blue turning Sky & Sea is on fire and very small, and there's plenty of room in her little brown eyes for more than one sun, one sky, one Pacific Ocean. Each enchilada contains a stadium of hushed fans. Each enchilada contains a sellout crowd of roaring faces. We each eat two and then go for a long walk along the beach. We walk the edge until the earth turns us away from the churning blue and--cuckoo clock sudden-- towards a deep black heaven pumping stars. Hand in hand we barefoot back to the Bardo & Bed for some happy happy boom boom. And afterwards she says: "O Harvey, we have everything, except money." Harvey Goldner is that old guy who drives cab on Sundays in Seattle to keep body and soul together. To do this, he says, he must transform himself into a R.A.T. The rest of the week he is himself--underground poet and curmudgeon who is mapping out the narrow perilous road to immortality on the Internet. No luck so far.