A D Winans: Drowning like Li Po in a River of Red Wine

San Francisco 1866 (ten years old)

I was born in San Francisco, and have lived here almost my entire life. I was born at home, premature. My mother said the doctor told her I would not live a long life. I’m now 74 and the doctor is long dead.

Poetry and writing have kept me going all these years. They have been the wife and children I’ve never had. I’ve had fifty chapbooks and books of poetry and prose published and have appeared in well over a thousand literary magazines and anthologies. I’ve given countless readings and made lifelong friends. None of this would have been possible if I had not discovered the magic of poetry. I believe that in the long run my poems and prose will tell you most about who I am. As I said earlier there is no separating my poetry from my life.

I get up in the morning, have a cup of coffee and read the newspaper, spend a couple of hours at the computer, pick up the mail at the post office, take a thirty minute walk, return home, listen to my jazz records, put in a few hours of writing, and then it’s time to go to bed and get up in the morning and start all over again. That’s what life is pretty much about. The growing up, the learning, the wild years, the mellowing, the settling into a routine, and then one day it’s over. I’m satisfied with my life and the way I have lived it. Writing poetry has helped keep lady death from my door. The demons are still there inside me, but I no longer let them control me.

I don’t think any one man’s life is really that important, but what he does with it and leaves behind is. I hope I have earned more good karma than bad karma points. I hope in the end I can look death in the face and say that I’ve played the game honestly and that I never sold my integrity. In the end integrity is all a writer has. Sell your integrity and you’ve sold your soul to the devil. A D Winans

San Francisco 1996

Drowning Like Li Po

in a River Of Red Wine

 

Selected Poems 1970 – 2010

 

A D Winans

Publisher: Bottle of Smoke Press http://www.bospress.net/

This is a career spanning book of poetry from A.D. Winans, 398 pages. This book covers the period from 1970 - 2010 and contains a selection of poems from all of his 51 books over a period of 40 years. Paperback edition, limited to 100 copies in wraps. Perfect bound. $20.00 International postage add $11.00

NYC 1980, Columbia University Dorms photo by Richard Morris

Here's some of it:

from Straws of Sanity (1975)

FOR KENNETH PATCHEN

where were they when you lay in your deathbed

crippled and dying

where were they when you lay starving and broke?

there was no wailing then

there were no sounds of wild lament

not even a quiet weeping of the soul

no hungry hands knocking at your door

as you lay looking up at the heavens

barely able to talk or move

where were they when the hour of darkness came

when the blackbird sang out in disguise

and the bullfrog in the field silently cried

strange how the vultures gather here like blind ravens

crawling the lonely streets with their midnight cawing

gathering in twos and threes to read their swollen lines

here at north beach where the written word dies slowly

no real sign of emotion in this bought and paid for audience

each poet following the other like a line of corpses strung

out ten miles in a neon lit graveyard each voice rising and

falling the coated sugar on their tongues intent on mourning

down the hours on this moonless midnight evening where terror

and agony are partners and the shadow of your being dances

along the mountains coated in bright enamel.

kenneth patchen

◈

from All the Graffitti on All the Bathroom Walls of the World Can’t Hide These Scars (1977)

BADLAND WOMAN

(for anne)

she’s there bringing bad memories

like a carnival sideshow freak

she brings you back to

the worst days of your childhood

like a parent intent on making

you pay a long-overdue debt

her eyes are a pair

of vacant suitcases waiting

to take you nowhere

the songs she sings

belong to a forgotten

hollywood matinee idol       

she walks your dreams breathing

heavier than an obscene phone caller

carrying her wounds around

like a harpooned sailor

a bandage stuck to rotting

flesh

40TH BIRTHDAY

i seem to remember wantling writing

a poem about how

he never wanted to be a poet that

he would carry a lunchbox just

like the rest of them if only

the strange mutterings would leave

him alone

now at forty

i feel pretty much the same standing

naked as a deadman’s shadow wishing

i had been blessed with

the skills of a union carpenter instead

of these heavy words locked away inside

these aging brain cells

forty years old feeling

like the worn impression on

a buffalo head nickel holding on

to these fading visions

like an immigrant unable to escape

the old country

the moods coming and going

like cloud banks sinking slowly

like the “titanic”

the ghosts dancing on the deck dressed

in words of fire

and as each day brings yet another illusion

harsh as a hobo’s dreams

i sing the song of my chosen grave

the lines dancing

like a ballerina on

a high tension wire

while a friend of mine considered

a success in the business world

tells me that like him

i should make a list of priorities

and stick by them no matter what

but the hooks are too far in

too high up into the gut

to do anything about

a poet is like a train

a romantic trip back into another time

he is good for a laugh or two

someone to converse with/occasionally

sleep with/and always someone to stay

away from/when he is down and out

america is no place for

a poet to grow old in

a poet is not a thing

i would want my child to

be

I PAID $3.00 TO SEE BUKOWSKI READ

I paid $3.00 to see Bukowski read

then went around to the side exit

and got in free

sat behind stage on an old piano watching

the old man sit at the table drinking beer

and facing his enemies

his hero worshipers reading

one good poem for every three

bad ones and

the audience not knowing

the good from the bad

and after it was over after

his admirers had cornered him

for his autograph and whatever else

they could get out of him which

was nothing

he smiled took my arm

and said,

A.D.

i want to see you at the party

and then climbed into the van with

the young kids who envied him
the young poets who said

his poetry was the shits

the young kids who hated his guts

the young kids who told him how

great he was

the young kids who wanted to

be seen with him

and one or two who wanted

him dead

and so i refused a ride in

the van not feeling comfortable

with undertakers who drive

live corpses to sealed graves

before their time

and got in my own car instead

and drove up across van ness

across the streets of

my home town

and arrived at the party

a half hour late

and “buk” was getting blown in

the bathroom by a pretty middle-

class hostess who probably gargled

listerine

and it was wall to wall bodies

and the usual crowd

the young poets who were jealous

of the old man

the young poets who seek instant fame

the young poets who would never make it

and the young women who had made it already

once too often in bedrooms and hallways

in alleyway and in johns with pushed

up skirts and knees scarred from

one too many head jobs

and the old enemies were there too

john bryan edging his way across

the room whispering low key

“you better watch it my wife is here

carrying a knife”

and hank shrugging it off

and saying that was in

the old days in

los angeles

can't you forget?

and of course

he couldn’t because

hank had made it and

he hadn’t

and the poets from berkeley

and the poets from los angeles

and the poets from san francisco

and max schwartz

the only man trying to get into prison

when everyone else is trying to get out

and the homosexuals

and the groupies

and the leather clad crowd too

which included one chick with

her shriveled tits hanging out

and her male slave wearing

a dog collar

and then i grew tired

and started to leave

when i was introduced

to this rich girl from australia

who travels on her father’s money

and lives on

castro street

with

the homosexuals and fucks those

who aren’t

and she’s got a pair of tits

that stand out

and she opens her shirt and shows

them to me and says that

she can’t drink alcohol that

she’s on antibiotics

and coughs and sneezes

and i figure that

she has a cold

and then she’s clutching me

and shoving her tongue down

my throat

and i’m dry humping her against

the wall

and she has her hand on

my cock

and I have my hand down

her blouse

and she has a half-foot

of hardness threatening

to roll a lucky

seven

and she pulls back

licks her lips

smiles and says

i shouldn’t be wasting your time

you remember the antibiotics

and I nod my head

and she says

i’ve got the clap

it won’t be cleared up

for several days

but I liked your poem

the crazy john postcard

i had given her and

i nodded my head

do you have a phone number

she said

and i nodded yes

and she took it down

and said:

i’ll call you when

i’m well

and left the room

to french kiss this

dude in the hallway

who maybe

she wasn’t going

to tell

and so I went home alone

and beat off on the bed thinking

of this girl from houston that

i had a good thing with

a week earlier

the one buk had paid

$300 to fly to

san francisco because

he thought

he was in love with her

and she thinks

she is in love with me

and me being too tired

to be in love with

anyone

the loneliness of

the clock ticking down

the hours

like an old organ grinder playing

the final chords at an unattended

funeral

◈

from North Beach Poems (1977)

FOR PADDY O’SULLIVAN

Paddy O’Sullivan

home again wearing

the scars of the past

like an engraved bracelet

passed on from one lover to another

walking the streets of north beach

in search of old visions now only

memories in the nightmare mirror

of madness—swapping tales

with obscene priests hung over in

the drunkenness of eternal failure.

Paddy O’Sullivan of Kerouac tales

and Cassady visions

Paddy O’Sullivan walking
Washington Square
the bulldozer death lurking everywhere.

Paddy O’Sullivan does your typewriter

still talk to you in

the lonely hours of the night?

Paddy O’Sullivan alone in

San Francisco

city of suicides past and present

waiting for that lady poet

who will forgive you in the morning

for forgetting her name in

the hour of dawn when our needs are soothed

with the power of the written word

that stirs moves inside us

like a runaway express train stalled

on the freeway

like the haunting breath

of a hound dog closing in for

the kill.

Paddy O’Sullivan where

have all the poets gone walking

straightjackets trapped by time

the sun is not as you see it now

everything changes and yet remains the same

the streets are no more or less intense

the lines on your face are the lines

on my face as we move back into

the body into the inner flesh measured by

the amnesia of yesterday.

this town coughs up its dead most rudely

the raw nerves of time returning to haunt me

oblivious to the thirst lying still at

the edge of the river.

the blueprint of our life etched in

the dark shadows of

the soul.

paddy o'sullivan 1976

◈

from Venus In Pisces (1997)

MAKING IT WITH MY BABY

Let the wagging tongues wag

And the loose lipped zombies

Say what they will

We'll sing to each other

In the still of night

While calico cats stoned

On poems

Run through our dreams

And rainbow drenched clouds

Drag themselves across

The sheets with

The falling away of our clothes

ON BREAKING UP WITH SHEILA

9 hours a day at work

Another hour counting down

The hours

Commuting to and from work

Dodging angry motorists

With middle fingers

For brains

And when I unlock the door

And sink down on the sofa

And listen to the angelic voice

Of Billie Holiday

My mind tells me

That I need a drink

Maybe many drinks

Various ghosts chewing on me

Later I tell myself

I'll haul my tired ass over

To the typewriter

Sip on a glass of white wine

Try to pen a line or two

Trying to put off going to bed

Forever forced to remember

Your smell on the sheets

The taste of your flesh

Your warm back on mine

So I hit the typing keys

Trying with words

To still the pain

Of what I need

And never had

My mind my need

My weakness

No different than

Any other man

Thinking of love

Thinking of fucking

Thinking of you

Pounding out my regrets

On the typewriter

Savoring the lush taste

Of creativity

Hot as your flesh

Feeling the weight

Of your memory

Heavy as an anchor

Tied to the tip

Of my tongue.

◈

from San Francisco Streets (1997)

GOING BACK IN TIME

I was looking at my scrapbook

The other night

While listening to an old

Woody Guthrie record

Scratchy as a smoker’s cough

After twenty years of lung destruction

And there I was in my youth

Hitchhiking from California to Arizona

And places further West

Heading in so many directions

That it was like getting lost

In the trick mirrors at the fun house

And there were the women

Then young girls

Free flowing spirits

Who gave their minds and bodies

At the slightest invitation

And nights too laying alone

In tangled sleep

Feeling like a deer caught

In barbed wire

Or sitting bunched-up

Cold and disheveled

At the local Greyhound station

Fighting off the eyes

Of leering men who preferred

Boys to women

Now sixty

I realize I was there and back

So fast

Like a derailed train

Running out of track

Returning home

Carrying my life

In a knapsack

The days the months

The years hung out to dry

Like your mother’s washing

On an old clothesline

SAN FRANCISCO STREETS

I’ve walked these San Francisco streets

Like a cop walks his beat

My eyes taking in her every movement

My brain storing real and imagined changes

In sixty years her changes have not eluded me

She is older now

More wrinkled and cranky

Much like me

But the two of us manage to get along

Like business partners looking after

Each others interest

Market Street once a fashionable socialite

Now a gaudy whore

Mission Street

once the home of the Irish

Now glossed over

Tough looking youths with dagger stares

Where you guard your wallet

Like a eunuch guards the harem door

You have to learn to give and take

You have to learn to adjust

The city is like a cup of strong coffee

Stir her enough

And the flavor floats to the top

I have walked these streets

All my life

In good condition

And broken down physique

Knowing there is no city

Like her in the world

She is like a pair

Of empty shoes

Sitting under the bed

With no feet big enough

To fill them

She is like a squirrel

Running between the live

Wires of a utility pole

She is like the last bullet

In the executioner’s gun

She is like a room full

Of poets crazed with their

Own conversation

She is like Billie Holiday

Drenched in sweat

She is like the face of god

All forgiving

In her insatiable lust

For life

 

THINKING ABOUT THEN AND NOW

when I worked in Modesto

back in 1964

I’d drive to Stockton

and sit in the park

drinking with the winos

in Salinas it was field workers

in Crow’s Landing it was with

unemployed Mexicans at Latin

cantina’s

in North Beach and the Mission

I hung out with deadbeats and

losers

street people fighting

cirrhosis of the liver

junkie tremors and now

AIDS

in the Fillmore

I cut my teeth on jazz

let Billie Holiday patch up

my bleeding heart

in the Potrero

I saw the last of the

factory workers

growing thinner

like their paychecks

fearing for their jobs

in the Tenderloin

I drank with whores and

prostitutes

who opened their pocketbooks

as freely as their legs

on

Market Street

I witnessed panhandlers

crouched like criminals

in open doorways

a short distance from

the Jesus freaks with

billboards on their backs

pointing the way to heaven

at the old southern pacific

railway yard

I saw the last brake man

smoking a cigarette

eyes vacant as an empty

satchel

while on the other side

of town

high on top of

Nob Hill

society ladies sat in

chauffeured limousines

white poodle dogs nestled

between their piano legs

unaware of the dredges

of humanity walking third

and

howard street

drinking cheap port from

brown paper bags

starving cold disheveled

as the homeless are today

waiting for god or pneumonia

to walk them to the grave

◈

from It Serves You Right To Suffer (1997)

FOR DINO

The Beach is dead

The blood thin red

Dino the bartender lives

In a graveyard

Chief undertaker

Dispensing pain

Like low grade cocaine

There was a time when

I might have invited him outside

Only the tough guy image

Long ago died

The Beach is dead

The poets have left

Dino the bartender

Walks with spade and shovel

Having found his niche in life

The Beach is dead

The ghosts cry in despair

Mad cowboys rope my visions

Hog tie my poems

The curse of Kerouac serenades

The demons of sleep

The Beach is dead.

FOR KELL

Old guitar slung around

His back

Pure country

Singing the blues

In all of us

With eyes that cry out

To be listened to

Nearly 66

Hard as the highway

By the same name

Leaving a message

On Annie’s answering 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

This one time old friend

Still fighting

Still scrapping

Like the rest of us

For whatever time

Is left

◈

from Pussy To Politics (1999)

I KISS THE FEET OF ANGELS

dark starry night

fog creeping in

over the hills

raindrops falling

on the window

I see the faces

of old friends staring at me

ghosts from the past

freight trains steam ships

subway trains carrying

their cargo of dead

Rimbaud the mad hatter

Baudelaire

Lorca fed a dinner of bullets

Kaufman black messiah

walking bourbon street

eating a golden sardine

Micheline drinking with Kerouac

at the old cedar tavern

Jesus wiping the perspiration

from his forehead

the foghorn plays a symphony

inside my head

I hear the drums

I feel the beat

I kiss the feet of angels

WATCHING MILES DAVIS PLAY

AT THE BLACK HAWK 1962

long wailing notes

that run up and down

the spine

makes you shudder

like a woman coming down

from a climax

heightens the senses

sends shock waves

through my body

God, Jesus and the

Holy Ghost rolled

into one

◈

from Scar Tissue (1999)

WAITING

The last few months were the worst

As if she were under a gypsy curse

Her children near and far

Forced to watch life flee her

Like a runaway car

Seeing her nibble

At each meal

Robbed of all zeal

One eye on the dessert

The other on

The obituary column

TRYING TO LET GO

A week after Saint Patrick’s Day

You passed away

Yet remained in our hearts

Half smile

Half frown

Hanging around

I still visit your grave

On Christmas

Your birthday

And Mother’s Day

Tied to death’s umbilical cord

That refuses to let me go

Knotting itself like a noose

Around my neck

Too tight for comfort

Not loose enough

To set me free

POEM FOR MY FATHER

It took me decades after his death

Before I could write a poem about him

It was as if a small part of him

Had entered my heart

And remained behind the barbed-

Wire fence he so carefully constructed

Over those long years

Stayed there all that time

Building an invisible umbilical cord

Reaching out for un unseen love connection

Sending signals carried on the sealed lips

Of blackbirds circling invisible graveyards

Finding in death

What we had never known in life

Those ghostly white hands scratching upward

From the grave

Desperately trying to cup the tiny flame

Flickering inside the valve of my heart

◈

from 13 Jazz Poems (2000)

OUTSIDE A BOARDED DOWN JAZZ CLUB

An old man stands in

The doorway

Of an abandoned building

Shoulders stooped

Jesus beard

Ragged clothes

Hands outstretched

Begging for his supper

A tote of wine

His prayers unanswered

Spittle on his chin

Holes in his shoes

Walt Whitman’s forgotten

Child

GHOSTS IN THE NIGHT

the shrill cry of dead

jazz greats ring out

in the night gliding

on dark rain clouds

jazz notes loud as thunder

burst the eardrums

like artillery fire

the 4-walls closing in

like a police dragnet

jazz luminaries beautiful

butterflies spreading

their wings

reshaping the stars

the universe

cosmic matter waiting

to be reborn

◈

from North Beach Revisited (2000)

FOR JAMIE

Sitting alone at the

Lost and Found Bar

Here in North Beach

Dark skin centuries

Removed from the present

Tapping your fingers to the

Late afternoon music coming

From the jukebox

No longer able to play

Your saxophone now

Sitting alone like you

Forgotten in a

Downtown pawnshop

Tagged for a quick sale

Someone puts a dollar

Into the jukebox and

Billie Holiday sings

Softly in your ear

Bringing an instant smile

To your face

A lighthouse beam

Dividing the thin line

Between sanity and madness

This is your turf

Your veins burning with

The energy of life

Long lines of images haunting

The afternoon hours

Bronzed warrior of old

Sitting here at the

Lost and Found bar

The beat forever going

On

NORTH BEACH DRUNK

I weave in and out of North Beach Bars

Ghosts at every bar stool

Drunk with memories of the past

Time capsule glimpses of fallen comrades

Flashing through my head

Lenny Bruce at the Purple Onion

William Margolis jumping out

A third story window

Looking for death and finding

Only paralysis

Echoes of the damned

Ring through my eardrums

Like cash registers

Playing a lonely concerto

Inside my head

 

Lenny

◈

from Will The Real Lawrence Ferlinghetti Please Stand Up (2002)

Hey Lawrence

is it true that you said

when asked what you thought

of Jack Spicer,

“Isn’t he the guy who drank

at Gino and Carlo’s Bar?”

I mean I know you preferred

Mike’s Pool Hall

back in the 50s

a much more polite atmosphere

and they made good sandwiches there.

Is it true what Eileen Kaufman says

that you ripped off royalties due

Bob Kaufman

who was too shell shocked

to know the difference?

Is it true what Plymell said

that you sold out his book

and sold the foreign rights to a German publisher

without Plymell seeing a dime?

And Bukowski told me in a letter

that you took 50% of foreign rights

when the standard contract calls

for 25%

He said he had to go to Nancy Peters

to get the amount owed him.

And did you call Richard Brautigan

a “lightweight?”

I remember reading that somewhere.

and did you call the longshoreman

Eric Hoffer the

Rod McKuen of philosophy?

And didn’t you fail to show up

at the Folsom Prison Writer’s Workshop

saying you had never been invited

and laughing to a group of admirers

gathered at the Café Trieste

that “it must have been a figment

of their imagination,” not knowing

I had seen the letter myself.

And is it true that when Neeli

brought a group of students

to City Lights and explained the

history of the store to them

and read them a poem

that you got on the phone

and asked Neeli what the

hell he was doing reading poetry

that you were trying to run

a “damn business.”

I don’t know

maybe I’m dense

but it’s hard for me to understand

how you can call yourself a revolutionist

when you’ve milked the system

like a dairy farmer

owning a prime piece of real estate

in the heart of North Beach

a home in Virginia

and a cabin in Big Sur.

I mean all that is good and well

but please don’t compare yourself

with the likes of Lorca whose only

property owned  was six feet of dirt

and congratulations on City Lights

being declared a landmark

I saw your party celebration list

not a single blue-collar poet listed

on the reading list.

I missed you at Micheline’s memorial

and at Corso’s too

I guess you had better things to do

but then didn’t you dump your old pal

Shig after he had a stroke?

and came back to work for you

at City Lights only to find

his position had been filled.

Well no matter

you’re a master of the PR game

you have the media in your back pocket

the literary crowd at your feet

but maybe you should think about

sending the San Francisco Police

a Christmas card each year

perhaps stuff in a few bucks

for good will

for without their busting you

for publishing HOWL

you would be just another

businessman scratching out

a living.

◈

from Trying To Find A Common Bond (2002)

TRYING TO FIND A COMMON BOND

this young kid visited me

last year

from a small town in

the South or

the Midwest

I’m really not sure

I was half stoned

and don’t care for visitors

these days

and I bought him a drink

and managed to bum him

a joint       

and we talked about

the old days

when North Beach was alive

with creativity

but he wasn’t totally satisfied

he wanted a woman

he wanted me to get him one

as if I were a pimp

and worse yet

I was forced to tell him

I can’t even get one for myself

but he wouldn’t believe it

he had read my poems

he had seen my book

Venus In Pisces

and maybe because

I had been a friend

of Bukowski

he felt that some

of the magic must have

rubbed off on me

when he went to play 

the jukebox

I excused myself

to go to the bathroom

and while standing there

with my dick in my hand

I contemplated telling him

that we all lose it some day

some how somewhere

and that it would happen

to him too

sooner or later

if he insisted on believing

in fairy tales

and when I was through

relieving myself

I stepped out into

the back alley

and breathed in

the fresh air

and there was this dog

at the back

of another dog          

humping away with

his tongue hanging out

and the other dog    

looked bored

more or less

much like me

and I went back into

the bar

and against my better

judgment

put two dimes into

the public telephone

and dialed the number

of an older woman

I knew

who liked to fuck

young guys

but all I got

was a busy signal

and I knew as I headed

back to the table that

the kid would return

home

and write a poem about

how I had failed him

and I would go home

alone

and writer another poem

about how life

had failed me

in this we shared

something in common

REMEMBERING MY GRANDMOTHER

Oh how I hated that

third street

hotel

My grandmother old and wrinkled

Sitting in the main lobby with withered

Men and women reclining on worn couches

Staring off into space with eyes like

Death warrants

The smell of death

The smell of funeral parlors filling the stale air

My grandmother pale and sickly

Her voice trembling  like an earthquake tremor

Rising to hug me

Wearing her years like rosary beads

Oh how I hated those visits

Watching those old people

Walk in and out of the hotel

On their way to a Sunday walk

Or a meal at a Tenderloin cafeteria

Looking like wasted corpses

On a 24-hour pass from the morgue

Living behind closed shades

In single light bulb rooms sealed

Like tombs

Walking in circles

Like a mad conductor

At an abandoned railroad yard

Oh how I hated those

Visits with death

Seeing my own mortality

In my grandmother’s eyes

The old hotels are gone now

Torn down in the name of progress

But they will always exist

In the back of my mind

My grandmother walking the

Corridors of my skull

Reaching out to me with

Bone cold hands

These transitory images

That won’t leave me alone

Fading in and out

Like a bad movie

Worn down, depressed

I struggle in the morning

To get out of bed

Cursed with an arthritic neck

Waking two, three times a night

With a full bladder

Trudging down the three flights

Of stairs to retrieve the

Morning newspaper

In and out of doctor offices

Taking pills like candy

Seeing my grandmother

In the dark gloom of that third

Street hotel

Death crouched low

Like a sprinter waiting the

Starter’s gun

◈

from With No Place To Go (2002)

DINING OUT WHEN I WAS YOUNG

I didn’t like it when

My father took me with him

For lunch at Compton’s Cafeteria

On Market and Van Ness

In San Francisco

It wasn’t the food, which was

OK

But the old folks

The cook was fat and bald

And there was no waitress

The bus boy was old

And not a boy at all

And the people who came there

To eat

Were retired people

On low incomes

With death warrants for eyes

Dabbing at their turkey chins

With crumpled paper napkins

Looking like pallbearers

Back from a funeral

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from Taking Things In My Own Hands (2003)

MEMORIES

No more jazz at the

Black Hawk

No more jazz at the

Cellar

No more jazz in the

Fillmore

Just ghostly boarded down doors

Gone the clinking of glasses

The waitress who always knew

When your glass was empty

Working her magic on

Your inflamed nerve ends

The black female crooner

Hitting her notes

Like a midnight train

Breaking the stillness of night

With its long wailing whistle

Her sultry smile embedded

In your skin

Long after the closing hour

Leaving you sweating

Like waking from

A wet dream

POEM FOR ALL THE YOUNG TURKS

The more you commit yourself

The more they want

To dine on your flesh

These young Turks

From middle class America

Spoiled by affluence

Spoiled by the good life

Burned out before they turn forty

Taking potshots at you

In and out of print

Their lives strung-out

Like a series of bad dreams

Running through

The heads of defrocked priests

Hate crowded into their minds

Like a handful of sardines

In a fat man’s mouth

Too safe to be anarchists

They talk of revolution

Looking toward tomorrow

But locked into yesterday

How they rant

How they rave

How they preach their

Holy Mantra

Hiding behind thin faces

And shaggy revolutionary

Beards

They make love

With butcher knife precision

And when the blood rushes

From the wounds

They pretend the shit

They smell is not their own

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from Sleeping With Demons (2003)

EARLY MORNING INSOMNIA

sitting here alone with

a perpetual hard-on

4 in the morning

insomnia tearing at my guts

can’t sleep, can’t write

pussy on my mind

and people keep writing

and telling me I’m a legend

so why am I sitting here alone

staring into the dark

like a sniper fingering

a hair trigger

restless, unheroic

waiting on words that

won’t come

◈

from The System (2003)

FOLSOM PRISON

at Folsom Prison

the guards joke and laugh

as they have me empty my pockets

inside out

taking everything from me

leaving me with only my notebook

and a handful of poems

the guard in the watchtower

eyeing the prisoners

in the courtyard below

his hi-powered rifle

at the ready

the warden distrustful

perhaps even fearful

stations a guard outside

the small room where the

poetry workshop is held

the sharing of words           

barely begins when

I look outside the window

see a bird on top of the

prison wall

free to come and go

as I turn my attention

to the guard in the back

of the room

hiding behind dark shades

looking more the outlaw

than the law

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from A D Winans Greatest Hits (2003)

WINTER POEM

It’s been in the thirties two nights

in a row and my heater went out

and I’m sitting here freezing

my butt off with a hacking cough

waiting for the power company

to come and fix the problem

but it isn’t so bad

when you consider 9/11

the war on Iraq

and that d.a. levy

took a rifle between his legs

and blew his brains out

which has nothing and yet everything

to do with this poem

Thirty-degree nights won’t kill you

but they don’t bring comfort either

the trouble with being single

the trouble with being 67

is knowing you could die alone

and go undiscovered for weeks

with nothing but rotting flesh

to tell your story

and a few poems to remember

you by

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from In Memoriam (2004)

FOR BOB KAUFMAN

You wore your life like a life preserver

Remembering forever the political chaos

Vietnam, George Jackson, King and the

Kennedy brothers

Tongue on fire

Mind carrying the music of Charlie Parker

And Mingus too

You walked the streets with

Edison electricity eyes

Victim of shock treatments

And lies

With matted hair and soiled jeans

Disguising your nightmare dreams

You fired away with satellite precision

And the Gods feared your thunder

Your eyes boring through the

Living dead

Walking unmasked for all to see

While death a circus clown

Followed 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 footsteps

Like a hound dog 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

bob kaufman 1976

"in san francisco he was regarded as the original be-bop poet"

◈

from The World’s Last Rodeo (2006)

RAIN POEM

The storm

Lets up

The birds

Take flight

Neighbor’s dog

Shakes water

Drops in sprinkler

Like fashion

A cavalry

Of children

Magically appear

In rainbow splendor

Sun peaks

From clouds

Smell of spring

In the air

HAIKU

A microphone inside my head

Static playing mad tunes on my tongue

A lonely grasshopper without wings

HAIKU 11

Another day spent home alone

Bag lady talks to cracks in the sidewalk

Pope takes his last breath

HAIKU 111

Kaufman poems rattle inside head

Hunter Thompson gunshot wound bleeds the dawn

Umpire in black sweeps off home plate

◈

from South Of Market (2006)

LOOKING BACK

When I was twenty

It was a ball

There were no thoughts

About the right one

It was just this one

And that one booze music

And fun

When I was thirty the

Search began

It became a bit more than

Flesh and bone

And I began to think

Of marriage children

And a home

Tired of hangovers

Bent retching over a toilet bowl

The searching of the soul

When I was forty

Doubts began to set in

Memories of my mother breaking

A dish over my father’s head

A lover long dead

Young women passing

In and out of my bed

When I was fifty the women

Began to walk it past my door

And the bars became a bore

But the search went on

Now at seventy

My spirit on the run

I no longer play the game

Having escaped the mad house
Having escaped the nursing home

Is a small victory in it self

The graveyards are filled with
Lovers who search for the right one

Only to rot under the

Weight of the sun

◈

from The Other Side Of Broadway (2007)

OLD WARRIOR OF NORTH BEACH

He walks the streets of North Beach

looking like an old man

with eyes empty as a broken parking meter

Unemployable weighed down by the years

His mind heavy as an anchor

dragging the ocean floor

Forgotten rebel playing old Lorca ballads

in the shipwreck of his heart

His mind destroyed by shock treatments

and one too many police batons

At night he dreams he is riding with Geronimo

Has imaginary conversations with Charlie Parker

Rides the ferry with Coltrane and Mingus

Getting off at

Bourbon Street

to down

A drink with Kerouac

He shares a cigarette with Charlie Chaplin
at the Bijou Theater

Walks the battlefields with Walt Whitman

Rides the plains with Red Cloud

in search of the last buffalo

Walking the streets of North Beach

in search of the elusive ginger fish smell

Death a sightless chauffeur waiting

Like a concubine facing another

Apocalyptic day

CITY POET

Once addiction sets in

There is no stopping it

You become a serial killer

Attacking the keyboard at will

Your mind works in shifts

Strange creatures live inside your head

Show no mercy give no ground

Forcing your fingers to do their bidding

Writing down their thoughts in your

Loose-leaf notebook

The city is your slaughterhouse

Like a wife it accommodates your moods

Doesn’t seem to mind you giving
Her a bad name

You walk her streets a hungry vampire

Lapping up your own blood

On nights when blood transfusions

Are not enough

◈

from Marking Time (2008)

LI PO ON MY MIND

spring flowers in bloom

nature’s wild children

a sailing boat making its way

through San Francisco Bay

water calm

as whispering wind

a flock of seagulls plaintive call

auditioning for God’s choir

two old men play chess

under the shade of a tree

I mark time

like Li Po

mixing words with

wine

◈

from Billie Holliday Me And The Blues (2009)

FOR JACK MICHELINE

He was a high note

Of wailing jazz

The spark that ignites

A fire

He was a shot of heroin

A fifth of Jim Beam

A shaman a con man

A vagabond poet

Who shuffled words like

A riverboat gambler

Ravished by illness

Ravished by time

He painted his visions

On canvas

On city streets

In bars in coffee houses

His poems racing across the

Streets of America

Pure innocence

Pure genius

Poor jazz

Spinning words that

Hung in mid-air

Like a hummingbird

Drunk on the

Pollen of life

jack micheline reading

at The Loose Cannon Cafe, Chicago

  

THE BLACK HAWK 1962

The old Black Hawk booked the

Best jazz musicians of its day
Getz, Miles Davis, Diz

Just to name a few

I went there but twice

Once with the poet

Jack Micheline

Once with a young

Latina girl

To see Miles Davis

Blow his magic

Forced to sit in the

Teen-age section

Because she was only

17

Sipping on a coke

High on the high note

Smoke curling around the room

In long lingering lazy circles

Sweet sax

Smooth gin fizz

My hand on warm thigh

Feeling high

Feeling cool

Be-bop rhythms dancing

Inside my soul

◈

from No Room For Buddha (2009)

UN TITLED

I’m addicted to looking at pictures

My mother left behind

From assorted photo albums

Bringing back memories of our family

Flat on

Page Street

Teddy the family dog chasing his tail

Like dad chased his dreams

Mother sitting on the sofa knitting

A heating pad on her swollen feet

Or working a crossroad puzzle

One eye on sister the other on me

Dad lighting up a cigarette

Blowing smoke rings across the room

It’s like reliving vaudeville days

My father a grip-man on the

Old Muni Railway

Taking me with him for a ride

Letting me ring the bell

A look of pride in his eyes

When he said to the passengers,

“That’s my son”

May be the only memory

I had of childhood fun

Father and son as one

Riding to the end of the line

That one time when everything

In life was fairytale fine

Now at sixty-five

I feel like a dinosaur

Walking the ends of earth

With nothing but scraps

To feast on

TWO POEMS FOR MY FATHER

1.

On weekends my father

Worked for Luke Morley

At the corner grocery store

Not for money but for conversations

He never had with my mother

Staying there until late at night

Stacking shelves with canned goods

Coming home with his reward

A pack of two of cigarettes

Sitting alone in the living room

Staring out the window

Blowing smoke rings in the air

The ashes falling in the ashtray

Like bits and pieces of his life

2.

I turn on the baseball game

On TV

And Barry Bonds is giving

A rare interview

And in the background

Players are shagging fly balls

And I’m back at Golden Gate Park

And my father is hitting fly balls

Which I’m to catch in my newly bought

First Baseman’s glove

And I circle around reach up

And misjudge the flight of the ball

And it hits me flush in the nose

And I drop the glove and start crying

And my father yells at me

To put the glove back on

My mother trying to comfort me

As my sister, always the tomboy,

Runs out and picks up the glove

And tells my father to hit her one

Which she catches flawlessly

And I see the proud look

In my father’s eyes

The penance I paid

All those years into adulthood

A heavy weight laid to rest beneath

Six feet of cold hard earth

◈

from Love – Zero (2010)

#6

the day after Christmas

I wear you like a pressed flower
recently unwrapped presents spread

out in the living room

the house still surprisingly warm

caught in a storm that needs no words

in a soft place inside the heart where

all language stops

  

#20

twice we have broken up

and I tell you the next time

like baseball it’s three strikes

and you’re out

but you think I’m like a boomerang

always coming back

as I sit here alone in bed tonight

overcome with a great sadness

thinking of all the times

your body so close

and yet so far away

your eyes telling their own story

like an angry ghost reclining

in a three-legged rocking chair

AUDIENCE OF ONE

Old songs with half forgotten lyrics

play with my head

older still movies play on the

bark of my skin

Oklahoma, South Pacific, West Side Story

singing on the tip of my tongue

humming my way back to yesterday

left alone with ghostly echoes

serenading the dead

I can almost feel the ignited passion

lost lovers draped on my bed

tasting the melody riding up and down

my spine

memories of my parent’s old victrola

vinyl records spinning

on a balanced groove

a love affair so fragile
it was like trying to thread a needle

in the teeth of a storm

fading

fading

fading now

like an old flame sipping

on a cup of coffee

at my favorite café

a smile on her face

fingers snapping feet tapping

to the music that made us as one

evaporating in the face of dawn

like clouds taking foreign shapes

like the smoke rings my father

blew my way as a child

Frank Sinatra crooning in the

background

the way of music

            sex

                        love

                                    god

                                                and death

playing to an audience of one

◈

from Dancing With Words (2010)

MEXICO 2008

Alone in my hotel room
In Mexico, thirty-six hours

Before my flight back

To San Francisco

A hundred blank pages

Rattling around inside my head

I can turn each one

Into paper airplanes

Fly them to imaginary places

Or write poems on them in vivid old

Mexico song rhythms

If I could draw

I’d draw a rainbow picture

Of beautiful Indian women

With faces brown as earth

Soon I’ll return to San Francisco

City of dreamers drunkards

And lonely lovers

I will turn the blank pages

Into poems fleshed from the

Pond of my memory bank

Baited with the history of old

Mexico

◈ ◈

a d with paddy o'sullivan, 1976, photo richard morris

a d with bob kaufman, 1976, photo richard morris

jack micheline with a d winnans, late 90s, photo linda lerner

◈ 

a d winan links

http://www.adwinans.mysite.com/

http://rustytruck.wordpress.com/category/ad-winans/

http://deucecoupe.wordpress.com/category/a-d-winans/

http://hipstershustlersandhighjivers.blogspot.com/2010/07/ad-winans-love-zero.html

 ‘A.D. WINANS: north beach for 3 decades…’ A recent interview [by Evan Karp]

http://blogs.sfweekly.com/exhibitionist/2011/03/ad_winans_ran_with_the_core_of.php 

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bob kaufman links

http://www.beatmuseum.org/kaufman/BobKaufman.html

http://www.nathanielturner.com/bobkaufman.htm

jack micheline links

http://www.emptymirrorbooks.com/beat/winans-remembers-jack-micheline-1.html

http://www.echonyc.com/~poets/vol9/harrison.html

kenneth patchen links

http://www.connectotel.com/patchen/

http://jacketmagazine.com/12/patch-smith.html

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