Tag Archives: beat

Love letter

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Take me back to San Francisco
take me to climbing up city mountains
they call Bernal Heights
with sidewalks made of staircases
and lined with pink flowers
I have never seen so pink
in my life.
Climb until your calves ache.
Take me to the feelings and the hip
take me to the tacos of the Mission.
Take me to the towers to the tourists
to the scrappy figures and tempting touches
along Ocean Beach
to the baths of the too fancy Cliff House
to midnight diners
bike rides
and convertibles.
Take me back to seeing the Pacific
on the other side of the world
for the first time
to the ghosts of hippies to flowers in hair
to dream-laden dusty golden merry-go-rounds.
To sunshine city lights and fog.
Take me back to standing on top of Angel Island
State Park and walking along with my soul.
Take me back to getting lost.
Take me to those feelings
to breathing in the ghosts of Kerouac and Ginsberg
in the heavenly stacks of City Lights
and waiting
hoping
and holding your breathe
that Ferlinghetti would
walk out of his
too high secret office and take me with him.
Take me back to cappuchinos
and Washington Square.
To camping on top of the World
at Steep Ravine on Mount Tam
fear of sliding into the sea
or rather
the sea would come and take me right downstream
towards the glow
under the big glistening bridge
and straight to Jack Kerouac’s heart.

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Missing Beat

Kerouac, where have you gone
hiding in empty milk cartons behind
lost faces
distant graces
and your honeymoon eyes.
Have you hitched some train ride
across our sweet corn field country
to the West
where it was all won and golden?

Perhaps you are hiding in your dreams,
sleeping in rail cars
or scattered out at sea,
walking among the Big Sur trees
or dancing down Market street?
Perhaps you lost yourself among the jazz tones
and the bop,
perhaps you’re just hiding in some shadowy basement bar
tapping along to the beat.

Maybe you got lost on a carnival ride
your dark cotton candy eyes
sent you rocketing to the top
and maybe you’re slowly falling back down to Mount Tam.
Maybe you’re in Paris,
maybe you’re in Mexico.
Maybe I’ll spend forever wondering where did you go…

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The buzz and the rumble

The fragments of peace and blunder that make up our lives—
it’s all just to pass the time. All of it.
Look up and you’ll see the heavens seem so far away.
Peace in strangeness, peace in strangers.
The heavens seem so far away.

We’re all just waiting,
waiting for what—
for our lives to end?
for the heavens to move closer,
the sky to come crashing down?

We’re waiting to see our futures
become something—
more than they are.
Moonrise after moonrise—
just trying to fill our four walls
with grand heirlooms,
to show we’ve come from SOMEWHERE,
we are made up of SOMETHING,
we have meant something to SOMEONE.

This dark wooden rocking chair,
that turquoise fragile lamp
of your grandmothers—
you remember her bony hands,
her fierce blue eyes that could still look warm…
Sadness, not even Sunday night
oldtime Bluegrass from the radio can fix.

But tonight it was just background noise.
The buzz. The rumble. The never ending beat.

Do you know that Banksy piece, the graffiti
stencil of a young girl
placed next to a gas station in L.A.—if you don’t
know it look it up—
she’s got this big old watering can
and she’s watering an old TV antenna that’s
growing out of the earth, leaves and all.
She’s watering—causing to grow—distraction.
Background noise.
The buzz, rumble and never ending.

Beat.

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