A. D. Winans is a native San Francisco
poet, writer and photographer. He is a graduate of SF
State University and a member of PEN. He is the author
of over 45 books and chapbooks of poetry and prose.
His work has appeared world-wide and been translated
into 8 languages. A poem of his was set to music and
performed at Tully Hall (NYC) in 2004. Latest books
include: The Wrong Side Of Town (Cross Cultural Communications),
This Land Is Not My Land
(Presa Press), and Tombstone Graffiti (Butcher Block
Press).
|
| FOR
RM |
She was Harpo Marx without a harp
She was Salley Rand without
Her burlesque fan
She was a slow funeral train making
Its way down the track looking
For the last hunchback
She was Clint Eastwood
Out to make your day
With a loaded gun aimed
At your groin
She was a schoolyard bully
With a jagged knife threatening
To whittle you down to size
Baby I can't do the last dance
Not even to get into your pants
I don't want a ride on your rowboat
To the Bermuda Triangle
Or sit in the back seat
Of your leaky canoe listening
To you play love songs on your kazoo
And why do you insist on checking
Out of the hotel
When we haven't yet checked in
You have the desk clerk confused
And I'm losing all interest in the muse
Not since I ran the 440 in high school
Have I been this out of breath
The ring master has issued me a summons
To report to the firing range
He wants to remove the bulls-eye
From my heart
You'll have to find someone else
For target practice |
| GRAND
SLAM |
They're out to hit a home run
From San Francisco to London and Rome
They all want to be the Babe Ruth of poetry
They're all business sizing up the crowd
Shouting words like bullets aimed
At the competition
Who comes armed with flak jackets
Circling the arena like a shark smelling blood
The "mc" hold the microphone like a cock
Works it religiously titilating the audience
Keeping them on the edge of their seats
The judges write down their score
Never missing a beat
The poets finely tuned sportcars
Running on all cylinders
It's become a tennis match
Singles are out of fashion
They form intercontinental teams
Dream of the day they will have
A league all of their own
Face the enemy with cross and bow
Carving out a niche for themsleves
For a chance at becoming a Mafia Don
Sharpening their knives
Trying to get up the courage
To take on the language poets on
One on one |
| POEM
FOR CHARLIE MINGUS |
hot lava erupting in my brain
wet sex screams riding my veins
hot lightning bleeding my heart
like an undertaker dressing the dead
your rainbow notes cutting into me
like a surgeon's scalpel
leaves me feeling like a drunk
Jesus walking on water
*** first published by x-ray press in a slightly
different version
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