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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 stream ships
subway trains carrying
their cargo of death
Corso the mad hatter
Rimbaud Baudelaire
Lorca fed a meal 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 fog horn playing a symphony
inside my head
I hear the drums
I feel the beat
I kiss the feet
Of angels
Old Warrior of North Beach
He walks the streets of NorthBeach
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
Bottom of the ocean floor
Forgotten rebel playing old 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 Miles Davis
Getting off at Bourbon Street
To down a drink with Kerouac
He shares a cigarette with Charlie Chaplin
At the old 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
End of Innocence
I lost whatever innocence
I had
back in 68
Robert Kennedy Matin Luther King
gunned-down in their prime
Mai Lai, a month later the Chicago 7
Storm troopers wielding clubs
like cavemen of old
Richard Nixon signaling the beginning
of the end
Those eyes those wide eyes
digging holes in my heart
Napalm fire kissing that child’s
innocent body
Black smoke stuck to her skin
as television pundits played
their spin
This war that we could never
win.
Panama Memories
the young Panamanian girl
sitting alongside
her sister dressed only
in panties and bra
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 the long wooden
bench with zombie like stares
doing a woman’s thing inside
a child’s body
A. D. Winans is a native San Francisco poet, writer and photographer.
His work has been published world-wide and translated into eight languages.
He is a member of PEN and a graduate of SF State University. The former
editor and publisher of Second Coming, he has seen his work appear
on many web sites as well as in literary journals and neighborhood
newspapers.
Dedicated A.D. Winans Web Site
A. D. Winans
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