The Shakes by Joe Johnston (I AM STILL WAITING Series)

The Shakes
by Joe Johnston

I am still waiting for the shakes to stop.
I am still waiting for the magic of Big Sur
     to envelop me in calm
          comfort, to
let
   me
     breathe.

I did the work; I rejected the
mythos and I rejected the
ritual and I decamped to the
valley. And I waited.

I
   wait
          ed.

I waited as the shakes continued
and I waited as the Fall rolled in and
the tide rolled out.

boom

BOOM

The beats go on as the
     Beats went on, and
I don’t have the right map so I’m
lost, off the road, a city light
     my only beacon, waiting for
          the. shakes. to. stop.

PAINTING: Big Sur Coastline by Eyvind Earle.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: A popular book many young people read to broaden their boundaries is Jack Kerouac’s 1957 novel On the Road. But I don’t feel that enough people bookend the experience by reading his tragic Big Sur (1962).  I didn’t come to it myself until much later in life, which is may be a good thing. When I think of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, I can’t help but picture him as this calming grandfather, protector, and champion of a wild bunch of maniacs, unable to save some of them from themselves. This poem is part homage to that calming grandfather.

PHOTO: Jack Kerouac (left) and Lawrence Ferlinghetti in front of Ferlinghetti’s house at 706 Wisconsin St., San Francisco, California (early 1959). Photo by Kirby Ferlinghetti. (Online Archives of California)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Writer and filmmaker Joe Johnston made his first movie at the age of 11, an industrial espionage thriller that continues to play to excited crowds in his parents’ living room every Christmas. His prose, poetry, and video literature have appeared in Atticus Review, Matador Review, and Iron Horse Literary Review. His recent film How to Make a No-Sew Coronavirus Face Mask from a Poem was featured in Michigan State University’s 2021 Filmetry Festival, viewable here.  He currently resides in Michigan with his loving family of fellow artists and is working on a feature-length play about a dystopic suburban road rally.

Saint Avalynn by Christian Garduno (I AM STILL WAITING Series)

Saint Avalynn
by Christian Garduno

stan getz blowing dostoevskyan solos
disbursing the future around like desolate pollen
beyond the novel, beyond the obituary
nights asunder in the City of Venice
sonatas and a satori
olden angels sorrowed in their visions and false starts
sending a telegram out to the city lights
astonished bliss atonement, all zoology blind as Homer
country hymns ululating, dharmic checks bouncing
Gabriella’s thrown her wrists up
the hyenas of hyannis are on the loose tonight
riding down the edge of a sideburn
Mardou, Chartres, and Clairvaux
with elegantless foreign arms, I am still waiting
She says she finds it easier to write me rather than to read me
Lou Gehrig whistling a savage tune in the on-deck circle
tormented by the silver key underneath the ceramic teapot on the side porch
Joannie Crawdaddy gets lickity at the lips
John Fountainsoda illuminated and Venetian blind
chasing some foggy notion over into Russian Hill
C’est pas interessant l’maudit Français
Obispo aluminum shuffling rackety shacks
Bakersfield flats uncontained by warehouses even more beater than we
McClure is sure mauve is the move
the southern part of the day meanders along like Highway #34
fishtail Cadillacs, camera shudders, sulphuric lamplights and sodium rainwaves
November moon voyant with California Burgundy
the vines never run out of wine
pour rien

PHOTO: Ocean Beach, San Francisco (Polaroid) by Nancy L. Stockdale (2008).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I was inspired to write this poem by the mantra of “First thought, best thought.” There is little editing—it is all free-flowing, very much in the style of the original San Francisco beats writers.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Christian Garduno’s work can be read in over 65 literary magazines. He is the recipient of the 2019 national Willie Morris Award for Southern Poetry, and is a Finalist in the 2020-2021 Tennessee Williams & New Orleans Writing Contest. He lives and writes along the South Texas Coast with his wonderful wife Nahemie and young son Dylan.

L.F. / 1958 by Gary Carter (I AM STILL WAITING Series)

L.F. / 1958
by Gary Carter

ferlinghetti in fifty eight / rattling round a coney island of the mind /
revealed himself waiting for the deepest south to just stop reconstructing itself
in its own image

yet here we are / way down the line / gray ghosts rising again from the mist /
bugles blaring / seeding gut-deep dread of purest white muddied by turgid waters / drowning as old man river keeps on rolling / delusions breeding illusions / conflict rumbling from sea to shining sea / as even god refuses a misshapen myth of america
that defies morality amid fantasy of immortality

like ferlinghetti / i am still waiting / we are still waiting / hoping & praying

PAINTING: Southern Exposure by Helen Frankenthaler (2005).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Upon the news of the poet’s demise, I searched out my old copy of A Coney Island of the Mind, purchased new probably around 1971. It was the New Directions paperback, priced at just one dollar (hard to fathom in this time), with cover notes pronouncing that it was “now in its twentieth printing with a total of 600,000 copies in print,” still a wondrous number for a book of poetry. But more important was that I was drawn once more into the words on the yellowed pages, and found myself startled at their relevance and resonance, words spoken as if from a far shore but rolling in waves onto ours. In particular, the line from “I Am Waiting” in “Oral Messages” that triggered this poem.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Based in North Carolina, Gary Carter’s short fiction and poetry have appeared in such eclectic outlets as Nashville Review, Deep South Magazine, Steel Toe Review, Dead Mule, The Voices Project, Real South, Delta Poetry Review, and Read Short Fiction. Forthcoming is a collection of short fiction entitled Kicking Dante’s Ass. His novel, Eliot’s Tale, is a reverse-coming-of-age road trip and love story dealing with things done and left undone. He also writes for print and online pubs, and sells a little real estate on the side.

A Poem For Dada Day At The Place . . . by Jack Spicer

A POEM FOR DADA DAY AT THE PLACE APRIL 1, 1958
by Jack Spicer

I
The bartender
Has eyes the color of ripe apricots
Easy to please as a cash register he
Enjoys art and good jokes.
Squish
Goes the painting
Squirt
Goes the poem
He
We
Laugh.

II
It is not easy to remember that other people died
besides Dylan Thomas and Charlie Parker
Died looking for beauty in the world of the
bartender
This person, that person, this person, that person
died looking for beauty
Even the bartender died

III
Dante blew his nose
And his nose came off in his hand
Rimbaud broke his throat
Trying to cough
Dada is not funny
It is a serious assault
On art
Because art
Can be enjoyed by the bartender.

IV
The bartender is not the United States
Or the intellectual
Or the bartender
He is every bastard that does not cry
When he reads this poem.

SOURCE: Poetry (July/August 2008)

PHOTO: “Blabbermouth Night, an open reading and forum, at The Place” by C.R. Snyder, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jack Spicer (1925–1965) was a poet often identified with the San Francisco Renaissance — the name given to the emergence of writers and artists in the Bay Area at the end of WWII. In 2009, My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer won the American Book Award for poetry.

ABOUT DADA: Dada is a movement that began in Zurich, Switzerland, in 1916 at the Cabaret Voltaire. Its founders struck upon this essentially nonsense word to embody a playful and nihilistic spirit alive among European visual artists and writers during and immediately after World War I. They salvaged a sense of freedom from the cultural and moral instability that followed the war, and embraced both “everything and nothing” in their desire to “sweep, sweep clean,” as Tristan Tzara wrote in his Dadaist Manifesto in 1920. In visual arts, this enterprise took the form of collage and juxtaposition of unrelated objects, as in the work of French artist Marcel Duchamp. T.S. Eliot’s and Ezra Pound’s allusive, often syntactically and imagistically fractured poems of this era reflect a Dadaist influence. Dadaism gave rise to surrealism. (SOURCE: poetryfoundation.org.) To read more about Dadaism, visit wikipedia.org.

ABOUT THE PLACE: Between 1955 and 1959, The Place at 1564 Grant Street was at the center of San Francisco’s Beat culture — a bohemian bar managed by Knute Stiles and Leo Krekorian. In a 1986 interview published in North Beach Magazine, Krekorian, known as the “Grandfather of the Beats,” explained some of what was special about The Place: “When Jack Kerouac wrote On the Road people started hitchhiking to San Francisco from all over the country, even from foreign countries, and their first stop was The Place. They walked in with the luggage and I usually let them park their stuff a few days until they got squared away.” (Read more of this essay by Mark Schwartz & Art Peterson, originally published in The Semaphore #181, Fall 2007 at foundsf.org.)

one 1, Beat Erasure Poem by Thomas R. Thomas

one 1
by Thomas R. Thomas

I met
my life
my life
on the road
to Los Angeles

I was
sweetly
intellectual

Then
for the first time
there was
Marylou

I
had arrived

SOURCE: “one 1*” is based on the first page of Chapter 1o in the novel On the Road by Jack Kerouac.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Thomas R. Thomas was born in Los Angeles and grew up in the San Gabriel Valley west of LA. Currently, he lives in Long Beach, California. For his day job, he is a software QA Analyst. He volunteers for Tebot Bach, a community poetry organization, in Huntington Beach. Thomas has been published in Don’t Blame the Ugly Mug: 10 Years of 2 Idiots Peddling Poetry, Creepy Gnome, Carnival, Pipe Dream, Bank Heavy Press, Conceit Magazine, Electric Windmill & Marco Polo, and the Silver Birch Press Summer Anthology. In November 2012, Carnival released his eChapbook, Scorpio, and Washing Machine Press released a chapbooklette called Tanka. In October 2013, World Parade Books published a book of his poetry, Five Lines. Visit the author’s website at thomasrthomas.org.

Beat Poet, Magnet Poetry Kit

The makers of the original Magnetic Poetry Kit present Beat Poet, a magnetic poetry kit with over 200 hep cat word magnets. This box of words really zings, daddy-o, and celebrates one of America’s best known literary movements. The kit includes words like jazz, generation, road, bohemian, freedom . . . and many more! Find a complete list of words here. Kit contains over 200 themed magnetic word tiles — all for just $11.95. To order, visit magneticpoetry.com. To create a poem online from the original kit, visit this link. If you do, please send a copy to silver@silverbirchpress.com.

shadowed, Beat Erasure Poem by Alexis Rhone Fancher

shadowed
by Alexis Rhone Fancher

I am ice
I am water
I am frost
cut by glass
I am a
whistle thru my teeth
 
I lose my hat
 
My eyes are locked
my bones are soup
I am stone
I am mad
I stare out. broken.

SOURCE: “shadowed” by Alexis Rhone Fancher is based on “I Am a Shadow” by Diane di Prima.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Alexis Rhone Fancher is an L.A. based poet/photographer whose work can or soon will be found in Rattle, Fjords Review, The MacGuffin, Deep Water Literary Journal, BoySlut, Carnival Lit Magazine, Luciferous, HighCoupe, H_NGM_N, Gutter Eloquence, GoodMen Project, Bare Hands, Poetry Super Highway, The Juice Bar, Poeticdiversity, Little Raven, Bukowski On Wry, numerous anthologies, and elsewhere. Her photographs, published worldwide, include a spread in HEArt Online, and the covers of Witness and The Mas Tequila Review. A member of Jack Grapes’ L.A.Poets and Writers Collective, Alexis was nominated for two Pushcart Prizes in 2013. She is poetry editor of Cultural Weekly. www.lapoetrix.com

Christmas with Jack Kerouac

THE TOWN AND THE CITY (Excerpt)
by Jack Kerouac

George Martin, almost as drunk as a lord, was singing loudest of them all, while the mother sat at the piano playing with a radiant and happy flush on her face. It made Mickey happy, yet also somehow sad to see his mother laughing and playing the piano like that. At Christmas, he always liked to just sit beside her on the couch. She let him have red port wine to drink with the walnuts, and watch the warm soft lights of the tree, red and blue and green, and listen to Scrooge on the radio. He liked to listen to Scrooge every year. He liked to have the house all quiet and Scrooge and Christmas songs on the radio, and everybody opening the Christmas presents after midnight Mass….

They all went in the house. The singing went on around the piano; big Mr. Cariter was doing a crazy dance with his wife’s hat on backwards. It was too much for Mickey who had to sit down in a corner and giggle. For a moment he was worried when the Christmas tree shook a little from side to side, but it had been well secured to the floor—Joe had done the job himself—and he guessed it wouldn’t fall over. He went and threw more tinsel on the branches.

Ruthey was whispering to Mrs. Mulligan: “That’s Mickey’s blue star up there on top of the tree. Every year we’ve got to get up on a chair and put it up or else! You know, or else!”

Mickey heard, but he paid no attention. He just stood before the tree with his hands clasped behind him. Then his mother came running over and threw her arms around him saying: “Oh, my little Mickey! He loves his tree so much!”

###

Issued by Harcourt Brace in 1950, The Town and the City was Jack Kerouac‘s first published novel.

At Christmas, Beat Erasure Poem by Barbara Eknoian

AT CHRISTMAS
by Barbara Eknoian

I see innocent fall of snow
from roofs
bedangled icicles
tracks of people
and a great pall of wind
The grief of birch
bent and wintering in woods
Our baseball field is lost
The blizzard oversweeping all
I reach the top of the hill
view the pond at the bottom
ice skaters thronging by
I circle the pond, the houses
the French Canadian paisans
are stomping their feet on porches
Christmas trees on their backs
Dusk’s about to come
I’ve got to hurry,
the first heartbreaking light
comes on red and blue
in a little farm window
across the pond

“At Christmas” is based on Jack Kerouac‘s story “Home at Christmas,” found on page 5 of the Beat Collection edited by Barry Miles, available at Amazon.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Barbara Eknoian’s work has appeared in Pearl, Chiron Review, Silver Birch Press anthologies, Re)Verb,  New Verse News, and Your Daily Poem. Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, her recent releases include her first novel, Chances Are: A Jersey Girl Comes of Age (available at Amazon.com) and her poetry book, Why I Miss New Jersey (Everhart Press, available at Amazon.com). Her new mantra is Carpe Diem.

Waiting for Santa, from a poem by Jack Spicer

PSYCHOANALYSIS: AN ELEGY (Excerpt)
by Jack Spicer 

…I would like to write a poem…
As slow as the summer seems
On a hot day drinking beer outside
Or standing in the middle of a white-hot road
Between Bakersfield and Hell*
Waiting for Santa Claus.

***
Read “Psychoanalysis: An Elegy” by Jack Spicer in its entirety at poets.org.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jack Spicer (1925–1965) was a poet often identified with the San Francisco Renaissance — the name given to the emergence of writers and artists in the Bay Area at the end of WWII. In 2009, My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer won the American Book Award for poetry.

ILLUSTRATION: “Desert Santa” by laylooper. Stickers available at zazzle.com.

*NOTE: Hell, California, is located in Riverside County. (Read more at wikipedia.org.)