New Poetry
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The Bones Of Brautigan Rain falls on North Beach on a Friday afternoon and the bars are disappointingly empty just old men and tourists I sit at a window table as a man outside smokes cigarettes in the rain looking like Tom Waits circa 1974 and the girls walking up and down Columbus Avenue even their beauty seems tired and obvious and I wonder what it is I came here for the travelers and the aging hippies the tourists and the street punks I wonder what it is they’re looking for the ghost of Ginsberg? the bones of Brautigan? The massage parlors at least make some sense and the girls outside the Hustler club are the closest thing to poetry I’ve seen today but the clerks at City Lights will tell you poetry doesn’t sell and you can’t really argue with that. |
