ILLEGAL

she sits alone in her small hotel room
six months pregnant
forced to give head for soup and bread
no heat, one wash clothe, one towel
one urine-stained washbasin
an immigrant without a visa
an illegal caught in a legal trap

she gets up
heads for the door
hears the night manager whisper whore
suspended in silence floating
face down in the bowels of the
American dream.




2 AM in the Tenderloin

two in the morning
bars closing down
200 block of Ellis and Eddy
In the heart of the Tenderloin
I stagger past two drag queens
as slowed down cars cruise by
sad-eyed drivers ogling
these would-be women
with cocks taped back
to hide their secret
as bar patrons head for
all night Chinese cafe’s
or Asian masseuse parlors
to make love to dragon ladies
with cash-register eyes
one old man standing alone
on the corner
next to an abandoned building
eyes riveted to the pavement
looking like a pallbearer
back from a funeral



GIRLS OF THE TENDERLOIN


The girls of the Tenderloin
Wear tank tops and sport
Tight skirts with white shoes
Showing off dark skin
Or black shoes contrasting
Their white skin
The girls of the Tenderloin
Stand out like a dragon
In a Chinese New Year parade
Moving their hips like the
Hula-hoops of yesteryear
Talking heavy thick slang
Their “hey baby
You want a date”
Cutting through the air
Like a machete
Looking for a snake
In knee-high grass
The girls of the Tenderloin
Walk/talk/strut their stuff
Not afraid of the law man’s bluff
The girls of the Tenderloin
Stop traffic
With their sultry looks
Their dark brown eyes
Thirsty as a Mexican matador
Looking for a kill



OLD JOE

He sleeps in doorways
Or on park benches
Doesn’t want to go
To a shelter
Not even when prodded
With the heaviness
Of the Beat Cop’s nightstick

Under threat of jail
He curls up
In a fetal position
And closes his eyes
Trying to shut out memories
Of Vietnam
Nightmares that whirl inside
His head like helicopter blades

The alcohol, the drugs
The failed years gather
Like locusts inside
The Cranial guitar of his mind
Playing all night rhapsodies
Inside his head

Warrior, troubadour
Of Pharaoh origins
Pale spokesman of lost tribes
Masked as a homeless transient
Poet, prophet
Of beauty and all
Its imperfections
Ravished by the streets
Kissed by angels
Left tired, withered
Like an unattended
Kansas grain field
 

KELL

Old guitar slung around
His back
Pure country singing
The blues in all of us
With eyes that cry out
To be heard
Nearing 66, hard as the highway
Named before him
Leaving a message
On Annie’s message machine
Reading a poem about
A bird that died in his hands
Remembering the scattering
Of his daughter’s ashes
Caught in the pit of sorrow
This man of music
The one time old friend
Who works the nerve ends
Like a skilled surgeon
Still fighting still scrapping
Like the rest of us
For whatever time
Is left



CHINATOWN SWEAT SHOP

you see them coming
but never going
working a l4-l6 hour shift
six seven days a week

I imagine the sewing machines humming
“a stitch in time saves nine.”

you see them coming
but never going.
I imagine the boss madam’s eyes
an executioner in disguise
watching, waiting
as the universe grinds them
into oblivion

 

EULOGY FOR BOB KAUFMAN

You wore your life like
A life preserver
Remembering forever the
Political chaos, Vietnam
King and the Kennedy brothers
Tongue on fire
Mind carrying the music
Of Charlie Parker and Miles Davis

You dodged the lawman’s bullet
Riding high the poetic barb
To the highest heights

You walked the streets of North Beach
With Edison electric charged eyes
Victim of shock treatments
And the white man’s lies
With matted hair and soiled jeans
That failed to disguise
Your nightmare dreams

You fired away with satellite precision
And the God’s feared
Your magic words
Your eyes boring through
The living dead

Drugged by speed and meth
Reciting Blake and McBeth
Walking unmasked for all to see
Lady Death the ultimate clown
Following you about town
Oblivious to the gothic nightmares
You wore like an anchor around
Your neck

You moved through
The streets of North Beach
The original be-bop man
Poet in residence
Caretaker of the clan
The haunting breath of death
Snapping at your heels
Like a bloodhound closing in
For the kill
And when the magic
Of North Beach left
You did too
Moving to the Bayview
Black ghetto
Away from the social zoo
A living Bangladesh come true

Your words to the end
Hard as a pair of new boots
Echoing across the universe
like King Tut’s curse

And when death came
To claim you
The angry ghosts of the
Co-existence Bagel Shop
Beat hard in the paper hearts
Of every city cop
The shadow of your being
Dancing from Chinatown
Alleys to downtown
High rises
Billie Holiday forever singing
In your heart


CITY HAPPENINGS

there having a rumble
at Ellis and Eddy street
and the police are slow to respond
you can see the rage
in the Chicano’s eyes
smell the fear in Whitey

the Blacks are shucking and jiving
and rolling dice while placing
bets on winner and loser alike
the street whores move down
a block or two to ply their trade
one white, one Asian
one spade
the cops arrive at last
dispense the players like bit actors
auditioning for a role in the big show

small town punks gather themselves
run for cover
don’t stop to look back
head for crack house
to bide their time
like a stoned Jesus
hung out to dry
on your mother’s clothes line


BILL

He keeps a photograph
Tucked away inside
His meager belongings
Three soldiers smiling
Smoking cigarettes
A Viet Cong in black pajamas

Hanging upside down from a pole
Gutted like a fish
Flesh nailed to wood Jesus fashion
Needs no caption

Guilt shadows him in doorways
And under freeways
He now makes his home
Incoming artillery tears at his nerves
Pieces of flesh stuck to bamboo
Like a piece of meat thrust
Into a tiger’s cage
Vietnamese peasants suspected Cong
Haunt his dreams
Like a faceless Santa Clause
Leaving behind
A bag of body parts



PANAMA MEMORIES

the young Panamanian girl
sitting alongside her sister
in slip and bare feet
reading a comic book
and chewing on bubble gum
at a brothel called
The Teenage Club
waiting for the first GI’s to arrive

six girls lined-up
like bowling pins
rooted to their chairs
with zombie like stares
doing a woman’s thing inside
a child’s body