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Midnight Dream
Jack Micheline
pays me a visit
takes me for a walk through the
streets of San Francisco
leading to an old hobo camp
down by the old railway yard
Jack plays harmonica
sings to the stars
does an Irish jig
with a band of gypsies
we share a cup of coffee
with the elder of the tribe
watching the moon-beams ride the
tail of Halley's Comet the
ensuing sparks lighting up the camp site
in the darkness of night
Jack reads the elder a poem
fireflies hug his skin
poems yet to be born cling
to the inferno of my mind
a grizzled hobo warms his hands
on the woodstove fire
lights up a stogie
and shares with us the
last of a small bottle of whiskey
the next morning we join
Charles Bukowski at the racetrack
the horses prancing like ballerina's
at the New York Met
Jack and Hank put a fiver down
on a long shot
God peeks his head out
from behind a cloud
sends a message our
time is up
Satan offers refuge in the form
of an albatross
promises eternity
at Treasure Island
Woody Gutherie sings
This Land Is My Land
This Land is Your Land
Jesus stirs on the cross
sings a ballad with Bob Dylan
Robert Kennedy drops in
with salt water tears
stays until noon
then leaves for an appointment
with Walt Whitman
at the burial ground
at Wounded Knee
a war window weeps with grief
a whore regains her lost desire
moths court a string of light bulbs
chasing away an army of flies
making camp at an African
gravesite guarded by the poet
Bob Kaufman
at one minute past midnight the
holy ghost appears from behind the
pearly gate
declares Jack the new Lorca
back at the campfire the
fire turns to ash the
moon retreats behind the Milky Way
Moses appears with a kettle of beans
and pork chops for everyone
a crow flies overhead eying
a crippled sparrow
a hummingbird sings the
national anthem the
moon commits cunnilingus
with a passing cloud bank
a pregnant virgin hiding
in the sage brush
challenges a cowboy
to a fast draw
God declares it
a draw
A. D. Winans Remembers North Beach
out into the harsh
night
walking the lonely streets of North Beach
walking the streets of my home-town
old men and women leaving behind their sins
dressed in simple hats and death black shawls
bowing to the holy eternal mumble
of dead saints dressed in gold
thirsting for the wine that is denied them
the ceiling a giant mirror hidden in the
skulls of expressionless monks
lying motionless in glass coffins
hands folded in ecstasy
eyes open, smiling like a stoned gypsy
hanging from a pendulum in the
chapel of hope where Italian Priests
weaned on dago red
ply evil thoughts from sterile minds
toying with the heads of the masses
staring always staring
searching for paradise
fat and content smoking Tijuana slims
stone-faced magicians on their way to the
graveyard where semen ejaculating altar boys
mock the hunchback crawling on scarred knees
three steps behind the screaming organ grinder
with the masturbating monkey on his back
San Francisco, home of my birth where
fragile scarecrows peek through broken windows
at overheated stallions breathing hard down the
necks of sweating dwarfs lurking in the
backyard of Grace Cathedral where the
hangman's shadow stalks the altar boy
with neon signs of insecurity
no dogs allowed
no parking between nine and five
keep off the grass, do not enter
out of order one way do not disturb
youth cult found inside pants pocket
of man claiming to be Ponce de Leon
walking the night Walt Whitman in search
of Sherwood Anderson lost in Clown Alley
sniffing used ashtrays at Clown Alley
an all night movie audition
Robin Hood strung out on speed
Busty majorette with greased thighs caressing
phallic baton stuck between vibrating plastic legs
up, up and away--Superman is alive and well
at Gino and Carlo's bar
disguised as a dissipated Italian
gone mad on kryptonite
here on Grant and Green where the
black-and-white hustle nightly
a cargo of restless souls for City Prison's
late midnight special.
the left, the right the over ground
the underground all busy ripping off the other
while the penis fantasy of a vaginal orgasm
finds clitoral satisfaction in the
extracted womb of the Madonna
hung out on the clothesline to dry
2 am, young men standing half-out
of their minds
young girls in jeans and see-through minds
old men not all that old staring vacantly
at the moon, at the women who carry
their souls in their eyes
making my way past Central Police Station
recalling the holding cell and Young Ed
with his skull cracked open
Courtesy of a Broadway nightclub Barker
making my way past Crazy John's pad
stopping to chat with Frank whose eyes
haunt me like a night owl
you can find them all here on any given night
an all night orgy no invite needed
Crazy Eugene who crushed the
skulls of those who disagreed with him
but who went to Oregon and found
himself in the eyes of his children
Peter with dreams of Picasso
who wanders the night
like an open artery of a festering wound
Lorraine stoned on coke and meth
Alex back from Petaluma reciting Mc Beth
here in North Beach where they took Eddie away
and gave him three years and eyes that weep blood
after one-thousand-ninety-five days and nights
of cell and sodomy
with only a handful of angry poems
that no longer crack the looking glass
here in North Beach where
they come and go suffocating on the
water of sound
home of Paddy O' Sullivan
forgotten legend of his time
home of Bob Kaufman
giant of a North Beach
that no longer exists
home of Jerome whose visions
of Nexus faded in Mendocino State Hospital
where you can't always tell the difference between
a smile and a scream
Home of Ben although no more
who after ninety days treatment
they drove thoroughly mad
no doubt for his own good
when they traded him his heritage
for a feather bed
but it need not be here
it can happen anywhere
like they ran in Jack Micheline
for pissing on a cop's foot
in New York City
for biting a law man's nose
but they couldn't kill the poetry
and they messed with Bukowski's face
for offering them salvation and grace
not understanding anything but guns and mace
but they couldn't take away the
soul of Vickki of pale thighs and innocent eyes
that knew no lies
Vickki whose good times I shared
and whose pain I felt
nor the spirit of the woman of "185"
whose deeds are legendary
and yet they took away Inez
who few if any recall
Inez of fine breasts and limbs of fire
who died alone in a Beatnik San Gottardo Hotel
and they took the life of Ed "foots" Lipman
but could not break his spirit
for he knew the secret of invisibility
something the hound dogs can not smell
from Broadway to Mission Street
where the pigs are a different breed
junkies sitting at the old Doggie Diner
needles in search of sunken veins
making their own dreams their own Buddha
their own Jesus Christ
to them City Prison is just another room
where the roaches crawl sideways up the
wall on their way to a beggar's coffin
where the bones are many
working my way home
from North Beach to the Mission
passing Kell's place where the
lonely man of music lies
arms tight around his woman
to keep the clouds of death away
so that at least she might sleep
home at last
safe from the self appointed gods
of my destiny
tired of what they want for you and me
when it's really them
tired that they will follow me to the grave
their sons of death bringing
more death to mine
at a time like this
it is good to be alone
no one to camouflage your feelings
bandage my dreams
hung-up on my own disappointments
like an animal playing solitaire
with his shadow
the hi-fi playing low and kind
deadening the screams of my mind
oblivious to the outside Ferris wheel
revolving around the universe
housing fragile bodies
moving like silent boxcars
across angry railroad tracks
where lonely souls drag themselves
like wounded animals wrapped in fear
and angry poets spit out funeral wreathes
at scarred clouds passing slowly across the
face of the moon.
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