
A Letter to Kenneth Rexroth
dear kenneth,
when i write to you — it’s not
past you — your words and flesh
there in — santa barbara
or still here — in san francisco
here in coit tower — looking out over
the city you loved — that failed you
the scene of how — many renaissances
berkeley, SF — beatniks, hippies
living awhile — pacific heights…
down the hill — from lafayette park
in an apartment — on sacramento
walking down to — japantown
back home — along fillmore
i was there too but — not like you
i was more the fool — than you back then
worse than the beats — you came to hate
i was a hippie — in the late ‘60’s
dear kenneth,
when i write to you — it’s not
past you — your words and flesh
there in — santa barbara
or still here — in san francisco
here in coit tower — looking out over
the city you loved — that failed you
the scene of how — many renaissances
berkeley, SF — beatniks, hippies
living awhile — pacific heights…
down the hill — from lafayette park
in an apartment — on sacramento
walking down to — japantown
back home — along fillmore
i was there too but — not like you
i was more the fool — than you back then
worse than the beats — you came to hate
i was a hippie — in the late ‘60’s
then later mid-nineties — a writer
revisiting my own — tacky renaissance
the so-called — strident sappho one
the castro — the man with night sweats
taking a taxi — to north beach
where jack spicer — drank himself to death
the stillness upstairs — city light books
my 2 books — between ginsberg & proust
looking back — who would’ve guessed
the death of hippies — all my gay friends too
caught up in the — same sad zeitgeist blues
most of them dead — like everybody else
hardly whitmanesque — more like auswitsch
funny how — most literary movements
end up in the gutter — sacramental
adhesiveness — down the drain
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