Bernal Litterati [sic]

San Francisco authors read from their work. That means you, too.
San Francisco located stories given preference.

Loose-leaf authors
scat
ter
words in
the wind sha
dow
of a library


Here's a recent work read:

Between the heat and Greta Thunberg lies the whole of America,
Still romancing road trips
Sky trips
Cheap stuff from Amazon
And a mythos that if only you had the expanse of a continent
You'd be as righteous and grand and pious and independent
As George Washington, who raped black women to supply his
Substitute for fossil fuels


And another:

Jack Hirschman

Jack the magnificent translator,
The charge d'affaire of North Beach plump words to the world,
Drank his Stalinovich vodka with a bobbing scoop of ice cream,
Then took to the air waves with a little murmur,
Trailing Italian and Spanish rime into the brisk begotten vaporous sky above Coit Tower.

I hosted him once,
He and four others;
Paid them car fare to Bernal.

And now?
His slushy pronunshiation
Won't fit into a single poem or eulogy,
But comes spilling out the alleys and cracked windows
Of the little town smelling of focaccia if you wake early enough.
Aye, North Beach.
Aye, aye, Jack Hirschman.
You've escaped the neighborhood and gone on tour.

And one more:

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

The neat, sweet, and big as life stenciled stick-on film
Adheres to windows beautifully:
Black
Lives
Matter

Yet when I wonder out loud,
"Enough to end the private ownership of the Earth?"
The shushing begins.

I guess if you peel that lettering on film off your window
There's no need to feel like a dog in heat,
Humping everybody's morality trousers

And you can go back to backing Trump
By default as he collects the ground rent
at 500 California Street.


No, no, really; just one more:

SPRAWL

You, know, even in San Francisco
Where the fog clogs the valleys
And cars gum up the streets,
There are plenty of vacancies
Obscuring the view that we could have.

The Ohlone landscape you can fantasize
Of scrub and sand and rock
Only needs the natives--all of 'em:
Everybody sporting a Giants cap or jersey--
To embrace the free market pricing
"We are on indigenous land" belly-ache-ers
And righteous do-gooders abhor,
Apply it to land as though Occupy San Francisco
Meant the land was ours,
And demand the titled landowners
Fork the location rent over.
That's what it means to eat the rich on their own tines.
That, kiddies, would obliterate land speculation
And give open space scrub and sand and rock
A kick in the Ramaytush.

and how 'bout one for this week?


Amnesia

Give me Columbus Day sans the Indians,
Sans the free-loaders, sans the socialists,
Sans the bison, sans the snail darter,
Sans the carrier pigeon, sans Bears Ears,
Sans the whole of the Americas.

Give me Columbus Day with
Only the Atlantic, grey and vast,
Or blue and green and vast,
With impossibly beautiful blond highlights at
Start and end of day,
Luring the dauntless voyager
To China and India
And nothing, absolutely nothing in between.