This morning,
Toasting ten dollar bagel at the Palace Hotel,
I watched a porter
Grab and with finger burn quickness jerk a sterno
Onto the floor of the Garden Court.
A small transparent flame
Danced happily atop the expensively thin carpet
Just under the shiny casket
Of scrambled eggs.
A suit came to assert managerial duties
And whispered hollers at the porter to "hurry" and "get it wet!"
The porter returned with wet towel
And smothered the flame.
One charred spot of time;
The only whimper of Truth in a fancy room.
Outside
A sleeping bum in small shop entrance inlet—
Curled into fetal position with small radio
Blasting from somewhere beneath trampled coat,
Blasting the dirty truth of his sacred mange—
Dreams of the womb
That is not San Francisco.
I toss hopeless coins into tortured hat
Against crumbling wall
And saunter on to buy a coffee.
Now it's jazz now playing now in the little Starbucks
At Third and Market
Where classes rush by outside in bleak blurs of daily life
Past stationary bums supporting walls with limp shoulders;
Living portraits framed by windows
Unnoticed.
I stare out at the still-frame of static glazed eyes,
Glazed from wind and elements or whisky or junk;
Vagabond visionaries
Watching power walking commuters serious on cell phones
Stumbling tourists bright eyed and dumb,
Zero-emissions vehicles hauling tourists and commuters,
Booming semi-trucks hauling necessities and extravagancies
To hotels that store people
And restaurants that sustain people
And coffee house jazz club strip joint museums...
The wind whimpers
The stench of their mange
Through our fancy world.
The living bean
That my coffee once was
Is now just coffee.
William S. Gainer
What if there really is a God?
And his name is Louie Simmon
from upstate Minnesota
and doesn't know he is a god
and the truth is
no one else does either.
And he's had problems,
they keep him medicated,
he hears voices,
they sound like prayers
from Midwest Pentecostals
and Southern Baptists,
he recognizes the accents,
knows that they pray a little more
in that part of the country,
the Midwest and the South,
than they do out on the coast.
But there's nights that the meds
can't hold the voices back,
they want too much —
he pours himself
three fingers of bourbon,
sips two,
gulps one,
screams to the stars,
"Make them stop."
Some place in Kansas
there's a freak tornado,
breaks all the windows
out of a delivery truck,
tears the roof off of a church —
they're asking for donations.
And in upstate Minnesota,
in an all night bowling alley
Louie Simmon is on the job,
flipping burgers
and keeping quiet
about the voices,
thinking about other gods
and praying to them all,
"Make them stop,
please,
make them
stop."
Perched on a leather couch with a beautiful woman at my side feeling quite satisfied after a great meal. Relaxing with a nine dollar cigar and a six dollar drink. Selfishly a foolishly bitching about sex war and taxes I notice something going on up at the bar
it appears a homeless guy has stumbled in from the cold early march night. He wasn't interested in all the beautiful people he was about to be with all he wanted was to share the warmth of
indoors
the bartender, doing his job, gently and kindly showed the man the door and wished him a good night.
He doesn't belong with us. He has no job or money
no house no car no insurance no 401k no family no bills no credit no turkey for thanksgiving no chicken for his pot. He has nothing that any good member of society has
I got up from my seat and got out of my role left the labels behind and ran after him
I turned down the alley between a restaurant and an aerobics studio and there he was stumbling towards the trash.
I grabbed him and looked into his eyes. He had it, the divine spark we all share no matter what we have or what we do
5 years on the street at 63 years old was all I got. A survivor. I knew he wouldn't be around much longer, his spark was dimming
later that same night sitting having a drink at a late night coffee bar a young kid all of 17 years stood next to me at the counter, not a dime to his name asked to take a juice with the promise of payment next week. The counterman hesitantly nods in agreement.
He places a Burroughs novel on the counter next to me. I look at him, again the divine spark but this one was glowing bright. I say Burroughs, good stuff.
He tells me how he loves the raw honesty in his writing and total free flow of prose.
I tell him to read Bukowski and pay for his juice
he runs off
i smile
86 years old. That night would be your 86th year with us.
Gone 38 years and still you managed to appear to me twice that night
Jack
