Contents

 

 

 


Sketchbook 

A. D. Winans, US
 

 

 

Free Verse

North Beach Yuppie Bar

Hard to believe Richard Brautigan
Jack Spicer and other Beats drank here
As I sit and watch two business men
Playing liar's dice at Gino and Carlo's Bar
In the heart of North Beach
Their faces white as pie crust
Wearing double breasted suits
And Italian imported shirts
The legal mafia making their own rules
The one with the twisted smile
Hides behind his dice cup
His coconspirator silently poking
At the olive in his martini glass
Looking like a hit man waiting
To fulfill a contract

 

 

Poem For The Jazz Man
At The Anxious ASP

they say he's burned out
but no one has bothered
to tell him
his Sax igniting a spark
across the room
his lips working pure magic
each note attacking the
heart strings of the soul
and for one brief moment
he loses sight of the bubbling spoon
the heated needle
each note a burst of machine gun fire
just like he used to before the
angel of death took him
on a straight line to hell

 

 

One Too Many Poets
One Too Many Poetry Readings

you can find them in the back room
poised for a quick exit
they're the first poets to read
and the first to leave
they always carry
a loose leaf note book with them
they always have a pretty young girl
hanging on to their arm
there is always one who claims
to have known Kerouac or Ginsberg
to have slept with one or both
two or three live with the Gods
another two or three claim
to be God
two ex-junkies one homosexual
one drag queen with too much mascara
two sad eyed women rubbing their hands
when they'd prefer to be rubbing something else
always a drop out from the Beat Generation
a hold over from the Hippie days
a woman with short hair
a nervous poet with a tic
a refugee from the drug set
a failed poet who drops names
faster than an auctioneer
one poet who reviews poetry
one poet who is an editor
one poet who wants to be an editor
one Messiah
and one visiting out of town star

 

 

State Of Seige

Mc Donald's wrappers
mating with coca cola cans
floating across the rivers of America
Walt Whitman's children forced
to inhale exhaust fumes worse than
a coal miner's lungs
Christ run out of town
for practicing his trade without
a union card
children weaned on Campbell's
chicken noodle soup
not withstanding all those tiny
booger hearts floating in a sea of fat
Late at night I can hear the
cannon fodder of Union soldiers
the sound of Confederate rifle fire
deadening my dulled senses
knowing I can't escape the
hangman's noose stretched out
across the face of America
In the shadow of night
I hear the whimpering
of soft skinned women carrying
silkscreen fans in bone white hands
mothers of the children
I will never know

 

 

Sunday Morning Blues

there is this kind of motionless motion
children crying themselves to sleep
the taste of sunsets for breakfast
and champagne for lunch
there is this kind of mellow music
hills made of wild strawberries
salt on hard boiled eggs
Peanuts in the comic strips
and radio DJ's with god awful jokes
that see me through another morning
there is this kind of sadness
the feeling of dull razor blades
sliding across smooth skin
Marilyn Monroe suicides and weekends
with nothing to do
heart attacks from love or lack of it
funerals with no mourners
poets with little future
and lovers with no one to love

 

 

Tenderloin Cafeteria Poem

I have sat one too many evenings
watching old men and women
eat their last meal
One eye on the dessert the
other on the obituary column

 

A. D. Winans On A. D. Winans

I Saw The Best Minds Of My Generation II

 

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