Welcome to My Poetry Workshop
You just gotta slap
the words down
and beat them
until they sing.
____________
Me & the Ghosts
There was nowhere I had to be.
It was late afternoon, I was on Market Street
in the midst of the financial district.
I was walking to the Ferry Building
for no reason other than it was a place to go.
It had bathrooms and people to look at.
It had little stores in which to buy food
and drink. People were getting off work,
rushing for buses, going in pairs and groups
to restaurants and bars. All of the girls
looked pretty, even the ones who weren’t.
All the old men seemed kindly enough.
On the concrete plaza the skateboard kids
were doing their thing, sliding down railings
and weaving through throngs of people
with the grace of birds.
The people of the street stood in groups
exchanging drugs and money with a studied nonchalance.
I entered the Ferry Building and used the restroom.
I bought a cup of coffee at a kiosk
went out to where the ferries were
and saw the people lined up to board.
I looked at the people drinking wine
and eating seafood on the restaurant patios,
talking about things they seemed pretty
sure about, businessmen slapping
each others’ backs and laughing like horses.
I looked at the ocean and a few ships
that were headed somewhere.
I looked at the bay bridge, filled with cars
and trucks and buses going in one direction
or the other. I eventually got bored
and started back along Market Street
with no destination in mind.
Everything around me, the people
and the buildings, the sky and the earth
all seemed possessed of some sense
of purpose and permanence
I’ve never been able to manage.
I didn’t mind so much, I was used to it.
Me and the ghosts, we just drift.
____________
Mourning
Lawrence Ferlinghetti died three days ago
and since then my artist friend has wandered
the streets of North Beach with a haunted face
his hands clasped tight behind him
like the old men of Chinatown
with the jacket, hat and scarf
he wears most every day, looking like something
from a painting by Toulouse-Lautrec.
When he passes City Lights he pauses
to gaze at the memorials, the bunches
of flowers strewn about the sidewalk
the notes and poems plastered to the building
the art and the blessings scrawled across every surface.
He solemnly kneels to read
something someone has written
on the concrete in bright pink chalk.
He stays there, motionless, his eyes
staring deep into some other place.
I’m not close enough to say for sure
but I imagine a single tear plowing
slowly down his cheek.
When he rises he turns to me and says
with a voice like something coming up for air
I’ve been interviewed by three television crews today,
because they could sense I was in MOURNING!
He speaks the word like he means it in the purest sense
and his eyes shine with grief as he wanders off.
A part of me considers it all a bit absurd
a performative show
but in truth he’s the only guy around
who remembers how to mourn a poet
the way a poet should be mourned
another art all but lost into
this dark mess of everything
devouring whatever light
we try and give.
deuce coupe 