—Poetry by David Fewster, Tacoma, WA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
2 POEMS FEATURING THE PORTRAIT OF
THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MORON
Random San Francisco Memory
Summer of 1982, I think,
the San Francisco Public Library
was sponsoring some sorta poetry contest,
so I took a quart of Olde English 800
to the Panhandle (a block from my flat
on Clayton) and wrote ‘Ode to Bullwinkle’
on the brown paper bag.
“This is great, and I am a great great poet”
I thought when I had finished,
and immediately thereafter
a cop gave me a ticket for public drinking.
I also didn’t win the contest.
* * *
Ode to Bullwinkle
The eyes of a three-year-old
are burned
The method by which we tykes
become learned
Who would have thought? The
secrets of our world
Be taught by a moose
and spunky squirrel?
O Sterling steed
Hey antler breath
Your praises we sing nigh
But to your rabid rodent friend
May he fly in a Cuisinart and die
What do we know of
Cold War dear
But from a couple of
cartoon spies
One was short with a mustache
The other had marvelous thighs
Imperialist fascist bastard squirrel
I spit on you—
Ptui!!!!
For I am a political dilettante
And live on beans and ratatouille
THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MORON
Random San Francisco Memory
Summer of 1982, I think,
the San Francisco Public Library
was sponsoring some sorta poetry contest,
so I took a quart of Olde English 800
to the Panhandle (a block from my flat
on Clayton) and wrote ‘Ode to Bullwinkle’
on the brown paper bag.
“This is great, and I am a great great poet”
I thought when I had finished,
and immediately thereafter
a cop gave me a ticket for public drinking.
I also didn’t win the contest.
* * *
Ode to Bullwinkle
The eyes of a three-year-old
are burned
The method by which we tykes
become learned
Who would have thought? The
secrets of our world
Be taught by a moose
and spunky squirrel?
O Sterling steed
Hey antler breath
Your praises we sing nigh
But to your rabid rodent friend
May he fly in a Cuisinart and die
What do we know of
Cold War dear
But from a couple of
cartoon spies
One was short with a mustache
The other had marvelous thighs
Imperialist fascist bastard squirrel
I spit on you—
Ptui!!!!
For I am a political dilettante
And live on beans and ratatouille
A TALE OF TWO CITIES
1.
SITTING IN CAFÉ TRIESTE
on a Saturday afternoon,
where I never go
because it’s always so damn crowded
and as it is I’m crammed between
the ATM machine & the restrooms.
Plus, I have to keep going outside
every 10 minutes to smoke,
which you never had to do in the day of
Bob Kaufman, Gregory Corso, and Jack Micheline,
because then you could
bloody well smoke anywhere,
even in surgery.
And it occurs to me that
back in 1982 when I lived here,
I coulda actually seen
those 3 guys, and maybe even
talked to them, or been insulted by ‘em
right before they asked me for 5 bucks.
But I was not a POET then,
and thought North Beach incredibly corny,
and to be frank, by then those guys
were nasty shuddering wet brain alcoholics
(fight me—I’ve seen the pictures &
read the memoirs).
Mind you, some folks my age
did seek these geezers out
and chronicled their ravings,
and some of them even parlayed
their obsession into careers, becoming
respected editors and historians of
the San Francisco Renaissance.
Not me, I just sip my cappuccino grande
and sit ostentatiously writing this poem
(the only person in the joint doing this)
and ruminate on the blown chances
of yet another Golden Age
I lived thru but
didn’t appreciate.
2.
I REMEMBER…
the time in 2006 we had coffee
with Fred Dewey and Philomene Long
at a little place off Ocean Park & Main
(I had met them the year before).
Philomene was very excited we had bought
Semina Culture: Wallace Berman & His Circle and gushed
“Those were IMPORTANT times”
and told of flying to Paris
to attend a conference on the Venice beats
and drinking a lot of red wine on the plane.
She asked me who my favorite poet was
and I said “Don Marquis.”
She didn’t know who he was.
The next year, we visited LA again.
I had Philomene’s address from the check
she had given me for my book in 2005
(an event I immortalized in my poem
“Her Poetry Lives on Bathroom Walls”)
so we stopped by her place
just off the Boardwalk.
I had prepared a package containing
“the lives and times of archy & mehitabel”
along with a Folksingers In Hell CD
and a poetry broadside.
The gate was locked and she didn’t answer the buzzer,
so I just wrote a note and
pushed our offering thru the grate
into the courtyard.
We found out later
she had died that weekend.
ON THE ROAD, LIKE A BUNCH OF GODDAMN IDIOTS: A Eulogy
Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady and Allen Ginsberg
Could drive from San Francisco to Denver to New Orleans to
the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon to New York City
and back
In a 1946 Hudson with $1.32 of gas money between them
While my 1989 VW Fox
bought in 1996 for $3400
Couldn’t even make it to Wenatchee without snuffing out
Like a lightbulb sold 12-to-the-package at the dollar store.
What’s up with that?
Crammed into the cab of the AAA tow truck,
I think of my copy of Gregory Corso’s Gasoline
in the trunk of the dead car—
If only I could refer to it now for guidance and strength
—Surely the Beats can show me the way.
The Beats, the Beats, it’s all with the Beats—
What is our fascination with these losers?
Sure, they had great luck with cars,
but most of them croaked by the time they were 40.
Show of hands—I’d rather
A.) replace an ignition control module for $325.
B.) lie dead on some freezing railroad track in Mexico.
And the B’s have it, and ‘b’ stands for Beat
And who can blame us—what else is there to read? When
In the ’60’s Kurt for-Christ’s-sake Vonnegut
Was considered the greatest author on the planet,
Then we got Tom Robbins with his endless maudlin metaphysical
whimsy mixed up with a 14-year-old boy’s sex fantasies
Followed in the ’80’s by the Ivy League brat pack and
Their rows of novels blatantly ripped off
From Catcher in the Rye
About how rough it is to be a misunderstood trust fund kid—
Of course we all want to be neo-beats
And hang in cafés declaiming poetry
And swill espresso and Old Grandad
And smoke cigarettes five at a time
And attract young, nubile, fawning lovers
And get on MTV—
We all want to behave like rock stars
Without bothering to learn to play instruments
Or even maintain the dignity of getting carfare for our gigs—
That’s what being beat in the ’90’s was.
It was April tenth, 1993, the Crocodile Café,
Home of the world-famous Seattle music scene,
where the Tragically Hip & Conspicuously Pierced
Could be observed in their habitat,
Clawing tooth and nail to get in to see their favorite bands,
and then stand around and talk loudly amongst themselves
During the actual show to prove that they were
Too Cool To Care,
and, if you were really lucky,
you could stand next to Peter Buck
at the vomit-splattered urinal
while taking a piss.
We had all laughed when, the January before,
Hamish, bar manager and clown prince impresario
of our local Spoken Word movement, had
Stood onstage during a Seattle Writers’ Guild show
and proclaimed with Old Testament fervor
that Allen Ginsberg would appear at the Crocodile and,
by implication, give his blessing to all our literary endeavors.
(This, of course, was before I discovered that Ginsberg
would show up in Jesse Helm’s living room as long as he
had his $5,000 fee guaranteed.)
Anyhow, two-and-a-half months later,
there was Allen Ginsberg performing at ACT
(with Hamish, of course, as the warm-up act),
then back to the Crocodile.
He actually sat for a couple hours signing books,
which I thought was pretty game for such an old fart.
As I craned to see over the heads and shoulders for a glimpse
of the poet,
I saw that he signed all the books with name, date, and the
Capital letters “AH”—what was this strange acronym?
No one else from the scores of autograph hunters was asking—
How typical of these Gen X slacker sheep,
Curious about nothing, not even the potential
Key to All Knowledge, so when my turn finally came,
(my brand new copy of Howl, bought for the occasion, clutched
in my hand)
I blurted “What does AH stand for?”
Looking up, Ginsberg fixed his seer’s eyes upon me
For a nanosecond and replied
“Aaahhhh!”
“Wow, man,” I thought, “How cosmic. No wonder
I’m the guy standing in line for an hour and a half
And he’s the one signing the friggin’ books.”
Four years later
Rolling Stone had two banner headlines—
“Allen Ginsberg 1926-1997” &
“Soundgarden Break Up—The End of Grunge”
And guess who got the Cover? That’s right—
The longhaired whiners from Seattle.
Has the universe gone insane?
Can anyone even name a single
Soundgarden tune?
Hell no—the only reason those bastards
even existed was so that people
who didn’t like punk rock could say
“Hey, these guys aren’t bad—they sound just like Led Zeppelin.”
Well, it’s the new millennium now—
“That ‘70s Show” has been followed
by “That ’80’s Show”
so it’s only a few years before
“That ‘90s Show” hits the tube
and we might find ourselves
Popular again.
Except Allen Ginsberg won’t be there,
which is just as well,
because he’d still be more popular than us.
That’s why I hate the Beats.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth...
without taxes.
―Lawrence Ferlinghetti
______________________
David Fewster is a poet, writer, and musician currently living in Tacoma, WA. His most recent books are The Diary of Nanette Jenkins, Vol. 1, a collection of pieces previously published in Andrei Codrescu's Exquisite Corpse, and A la recherche du temps perdu, or GET OFF MY LAWN (Couth Buzzard Press). His work has also appeared in the anthologies, Revival: Spoken Word from Lollapalooza 94 (Manic D Press) and Thus Spake the Corpse: An Exquisite Corpse Reader, Vol. 2 (Black Sparrow Press), and he was a recipient of a 2003-4 Tacoma Artist Initiative Grant for his book of poems, Diary of a Homeless Alcoholic Suicidal Maniac & Other Picture Postcards. Welcome to the Kitchen, David, and don’t be a stranger!
_____________________
—Medusa
Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady and Allen Ginsberg
Could drive from San Francisco to Denver to New Orleans to
the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon to New York City
and back
In a 1946 Hudson with $1.32 of gas money between them
While my 1989 VW Fox
bought in 1996 for $3400
Couldn’t even make it to Wenatchee without snuffing out
Like a lightbulb sold 12-to-the-package at the dollar store.
What’s up with that?
Crammed into the cab of the AAA tow truck,
I think of my copy of Gregory Corso’s Gasoline
in the trunk of the dead car—
If only I could refer to it now for guidance and strength
—Surely the Beats can show me the way.
The Beats, the Beats, it’s all with the Beats—
What is our fascination with these losers?
Sure, they had great luck with cars,
but most of them croaked by the time they were 40.
Show of hands—I’d rather
A.) replace an ignition control module for $325.
B.) lie dead on some freezing railroad track in Mexico.
And the B’s have it, and ‘b’ stands for Beat
And who can blame us—what else is there to read? When
In the ’60’s Kurt for-Christ’s-sake Vonnegut
Was considered the greatest author on the planet,
Then we got Tom Robbins with his endless maudlin metaphysical
whimsy mixed up with a 14-year-old boy’s sex fantasies
Followed in the ’80’s by the Ivy League brat pack and
Their rows of novels blatantly ripped off
From Catcher in the Rye
About how rough it is to be a misunderstood trust fund kid—
Of course we all want to be neo-beats
And hang in cafés declaiming poetry
And swill espresso and Old Grandad
And smoke cigarettes five at a time
And attract young, nubile, fawning lovers
And get on MTV—
We all want to behave like rock stars
Without bothering to learn to play instruments
Or even maintain the dignity of getting carfare for our gigs—
That’s what being beat in the ’90’s was.
It was April tenth, 1993, the Crocodile Café,
Home of the world-famous Seattle music scene,
where the Tragically Hip & Conspicuously Pierced
Could be observed in their habitat,
Clawing tooth and nail to get in to see their favorite bands,
and then stand around and talk loudly amongst themselves
During the actual show to prove that they were
Too Cool To Care,
and, if you were really lucky,
you could stand next to Peter Buck
at the vomit-splattered urinal
while taking a piss.
We had all laughed when, the January before,
Hamish, bar manager and clown prince impresario
of our local Spoken Word movement, had
Stood onstage during a Seattle Writers’ Guild show
and proclaimed with Old Testament fervor
that Allen Ginsberg would appear at the Crocodile and,
by implication, give his blessing to all our literary endeavors.
(This, of course, was before I discovered that Ginsberg
would show up in Jesse Helm’s living room as long as he
had his $5,000 fee guaranteed.)
Anyhow, two-and-a-half months later,
there was Allen Ginsberg performing at ACT
(with Hamish, of course, as the warm-up act),
then back to the Crocodile.
He actually sat for a couple hours signing books,
which I thought was pretty game for such an old fart.
As I craned to see over the heads and shoulders for a glimpse
of the poet,
I saw that he signed all the books with name, date, and the
Capital letters “AH”—what was this strange acronym?
No one else from the scores of autograph hunters was asking—
How typical of these Gen X slacker sheep,
Curious about nothing, not even the potential
Key to All Knowledge, so when my turn finally came,
(my brand new copy of Howl, bought for the occasion, clutched
in my hand)
I blurted “What does AH stand for?”
Looking up, Ginsberg fixed his seer’s eyes upon me
For a nanosecond and replied
“Aaahhhh!”
“Wow, man,” I thought, “How cosmic. No wonder
I’m the guy standing in line for an hour and a half
And he’s the one signing the friggin’ books.”
Four years later
Rolling Stone had two banner headlines—
“Allen Ginsberg 1926-1997” &
“Soundgarden Break Up—The End of Grunge”
And guess who got the Cover? That’s right—
The longhaired whiners from Seattle.
Has the universe gone insane?
Can anyone even name a single
Soundgarden tune?
Hell no—the only reason those bastards
even existed was so that people
who didn’t like punk rock could say
“Hey, these guys aren’t bad—they sound just like Led Zeppelin.”
Well, it’s the new millennium now—
“That ‘70s Show” has been followed
by “That ’80’s Show”
so it’s only a few years before
“That ‘90s Show” hits the tube
and we might find ourselves
Popular again.
Except Allen Ginsberg won’t be there,
which is just as well,
because he’d still be more popular than us.
That’s why I hate the Beats.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth...
without taxes.
―Lawrence Ferlinghetti
______________________
David Fewster is a poet, writer, and musician currently living in Tacoma, WA. His most recent books are The Diary of Nanette Jenkins, Vol. 1, a collection of pieces previously published in Andrei Codrescu's Exquisite Corpse, and A la recherche du temps perdu, or GET OFF MY LAWN (Couth Buzzard Press). His work has also appeared in the anthologies, Revival: Spoken Word from Lollapalooza 94 (Manic D Press) and Thus Spake the Corpse: An Exquisite Corpse Reader, Vol. 2 (Black Sparrow Press), and he was a recipient of a 2003-4 Tacoma Artist Initiative Grant for his book of poems, Diary of a Homeless Alcoholic Suicidal Maniac & Other Picture Postcards. Welcome to the Kitchen, David, and don’t be a stranger!
_____________________
—Medusa
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
