Poems and stories found in a box





Juan was at

The winter solstice.

But so was everyone.

His last name

Didn’t catch,

Anonymously equal

Under a setting sun.


Light comes from

Many directions.

Juanita from her skew line.

Pablo across his fault-line

Falling, falling, falling

Towards wide white lines

Covering ice-cream earth.


Fernando Real

Knows nothing is real

If you don’t feel

It blowing through the field

dipping, then jiving in manic motion.


Sun turning butter yellow

Over margarines of white,

Not so late afternoon

Soaking northern half-light;

Was bad luck full day

People went cray-cray

With winter, winter yet to come,

Dead bad boys of winter

Dying till solstice day was done.


Come, the revolution

When the moon is done

Just this phase

Will pass this way

Will of dusk and dawn be done

Spring is calling Juan to come.


2. Comus Parade


We are just a place,

Subject and a face,

Lillies in a row

Rose again for Carnival.


Shouts in willow rows,

Setting within hyacinths,

Looming long parade

Brushes final strokes.


Empty hides the space,

Where silence softly goes,

Before the wave applauds

Coming of the float.


I float and so do you,

Beneath the sea of beads,

Tossed by mermaids out

Nowhere left to gloat.


My Comus, come to me,

When the marchers stop,

Hides their colored masks,

To see and not to see.


We are meant to be,

An object and a dream,

Beyond their grand affair,

Stands nothingness.


3. Sometimes I feel San Francisco


Sometimes I feel the Barrio’s

just a place of the mind,

Like any other place of fiction and fact

into randomness combined.


That makes it a poem.


But in yon eyes, strange tongues

of the Mission, a place where indigents

Like me travail.  Where anywhere the sun

makes me feel the Barrio is a place for the feet.


The rest is poetry.


4. Rolling St. Charles Line


Papa’s gone, goodbye,

Streetcar pauses, sighs;

Circles spin,

Looms, begins,

Streaming down the battle ground.


Dear, shed not a tear,

Grunting, grinding gears;

Daylight fakes,

Heaven’s sake,

Floating down the sleek track’s line.


Wires climbing high,

Rolling St. Charles line;

Wheels won’t stop,

Pigeons hop,

Waking, stalking, coffee talking.


Screech, another face,

Staring hidden grace;

Neutral ground,


Black and blue and white floor space.


Final station, pops,

Filing out bebop;

Children smile,

Running wild,

Loving what’s left for life.


Conductor winks red eye,

“Lawdy,, by and by;”

Carefree moths,

Secret thoughts,

Rapid transit passing antics.


Daddy won’t be back,

Glides on better track;

Do your best

Don’t forget,

Build a future, be romantic.




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