busy as hell
Current mood: tired
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

Working two jobs now -- my regular 8 to 5 office job that I've been at for a thousand years and moonlighting in a bookstore -- so I've been busy as hell, no time for anything fun like writing, reading, no time even for yard work, which isn't so much fun.  Just work.  Today is my first day off in ten days.  Have some business to attend to but still it'll be good to not be on the job for a change.  The bookstore is a kick in the ass.  I've always wanted to work in one.  The pay is lousy, minimum wage, a fourth of what I make at my office job, but that hardly matters.  People come up and ask for books, authors, they even buy them.  It's great.  I've been keeping a notebook on the bookstore job.  Have written too much (some of it not yet published) about the office job, and I've swore off doing any more writing on that sorry topic.  More later...

5:41 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Mr. Bukowski’s Wild Ride
Current mood: lazy
Category: Writing and Poetry

I'm kind of late in posting this, but here's an announcement for the book, Mr. Bukowski's Wild Ride, by Roger Jacobs.  I wrote a foreword for the book, which is only one reason you might want to check it out.  More importantly, it's a damned good read.  Below is the now out-of-date initial announcement (the book has been selling at City Lights -- yes, THAT City Lights, in San Francisco.)   I'm stoked to be in that place in any capacity. - David

****************************************************

Date: Thu, 3 Jul 2008

Subject: It's Finally Here ... Mr. Bukowski's Wild Ride.

5:24 PM - 4 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Insane Asylum Photos
Current mood: sleepy
Category: Travel and Places

In April I made a couple visits to the old Oregon State Hospital grounds. Most of the buildings there are scheduled to be torn down to make way for a huge new hospital complex.  These are historic buildings, some dating back to the 1800s.  Ken Kesey's novel "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" was filmed there in the mid 1970s.  My path to work went right by the hospital and I saw it every day as they were filming, lights and other equipment set up along the exterior of the buildings.  I decided I wanted to capture some of it in photos while it still stands.  It's not an easy place to visit.  There's very little public parking and you don't feel welcome.  The atmosphere is like that of a prison, with high fences, warning signs, and nobody in sight except an occasional security guard.  I parked on a nearby residential street and walked in, quickly took my shots, and got the hell out, feeling like I was about to be arrested, or at least stopped for questioning at any moment.  Driving by is less of a problem as a major street goes through the middle of the site, but there's no place to stop.  I took a lot of shots through the car window, some of them "blind" shot -- no use of the viewfinder, no focusing, just point it out the side window while driving and looking straight ahead.  As a result, some are weirdly tilted and oddly framed -- those are my favorites.  I used both black and white and color settings.  B & W is great for old buildings.  It has the proper dignity for architecture.  I may go back and shoot more before the buildings are gone.

The pictures are posted in one of my photo albums here.

7:58 AM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

last name dave
Current mood: tired

Okay, so I put my last name back up on my profile because there’s an outside chance of some local publicity and I don’t want to look like a complete flake or be totally invisible.

If things get too weird at the job, I may take it off again later.  It’s a nice option.

7:31 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

No Name Dave
Current mood: insubordinate
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

You may have noticed that I removed my last name from this myspace a while back.  I’m laying low.  Trying to make myself not so easy to find on-line.  Things have gotten completely nuts at work and I’d just as soon keep my literary life off the table there.  Soon enough I will retire and go back to having a last name (well, maybe...I kind of like being anonymous.  It’s not like I’m paranoid or anything, but you don’t want to make it too easy for anyone to connect the dots).  What I’ve discovered is that it makes no difference what name I go by here (or anywhere).  I may just leave it at David or maybe I’ll beome Donkey Boy or Arvad M. Drudg.  However, I should change my age back to 59.  That’s plenty old enough.

5:13 PM - 4 Comments - 5 Kudos - Add Comment

Whatever you do, don’t miss the first Father Luke book...
Current mood: knighted
Category: Writing and Poetry

...THE PAGES TURNED TO DUST, now available from Bottle of Smoke Press:

http://www.bospress.net/

The hardcover edition sold out in about a half hour (I missed it -- damn!) and the paperback is going fast.  Father Luke is hotter than the devil in Palm Springs.  My guess is this will be one of those books that you'll always regret not having jumped on when it was new and cheap.  Kind of like Thomas Ligotti's first little chapbook that I COULD HAVE bought for $5 or so, and knew about it, and didn't, and am still kicking myself.  You were warned. 

Plain Old David

7:47 PM - 6 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

New book from John Dorsey
Current mood: sleepy
Category: Writing and Poetry

I haven't read it, it's not yet out, but I can highly recommend John Dorsey's new chapbook because everything he writes is freaking great.  Here's John's notice:

Covert Press out of FL is releasing my latest chap "The Ghost of Helen Keller". Michael tells me it should be out in like 2 wks, though you can order it now at-

$5 Post Paid
PO Box 1057/Port Salerno, Fl 34992.
Make checks payable to Michael Grover.

You can also order from me directly if you must, just drop me a message:)

Thanks,

John

5:11 AM - 4 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

San Francisco Trip Journal (2004) (warning: long!)
Current mood: energetic
Category: Travel and Places

David Barker

San Francisco Trip Journal

Salem, Oregon

to

San Francisco, CA,

and back again.

98 degrees

in Grants Pass

biker shops

junk yards full of

old cars and

lots of strange

buildings.

Cut thru the

Redwoods west

to Crescent

City and

suddenly it's

cool and

foggy on the

California coast.

Eureka Inn

Winston Churchill

and Ringo Starr

stayed here.

I bet it's haunted.

Reading Kerouac's

haikus in our room,

my wife doing her

email on the

laptop.

Suite of

3 adjoining rooms

249, 250, 251.

a suitcase full of

tee shirts, underwear

and socks.

not one sweatshirt.

I'm cold.

yesterday afternoon

I should have

been enjoying

the redwoods

I ignored them,

thinking about

my daughter,

wondering if

she will have her

baby early

while we're gone.

nice old hotel,

and a nice

suite of 3 rooms,

but those idiots

upstairs had the tv

on till 3:30 AM

and the mattress

was hard.

I heard a bunch

of fire truck

sirens, and so

did my youngest

daughter.

nobody else heard

them.

"was there a fire

last night?" I

asked the girl

at the desk.

"not to my knowledge."

maybe it was

a ghost fire

from 1915.

the fire extinguisher

case by the

elevator on the

2nd floor was

empty.

no glass on the

floor, but they

could have swept

it up.

more pancakes

at breakfast

than I can eat

washed down with

3 cups of

coffee.

I'll be stopping at

every rest stop

peeing all

morning.

immortal tree

Avenue of the Giants --

my two daughters

and a friend

at the base of

a 1,000 year old

redwood

the top burned off

by lightening.

I'm away

at the stone

restroom, guarding

the door

for my wife.

I wanted to go

into the used

bookstore

in Eureka but

the girls were

locking the door

and going home.

she's in a hurry

to get to San

Francisco before

rush hour, doesn't

want to stop

and see

the biggest

trees.

I took a picture

of the Big Foot

statue then

ran back

to the car

and we got

on 101 South.

along side

the hot highway

piles of gravel

in different

sizes, waiting

for trucks.

every rocky river bank

looks like

the setting for

the Patterson

film.

you think maybe

Big Foot will come

strolling by?

a steel building

with a blue roof

in Garberville.

I lost the cap

to my pen

somewhere in the car.

I like that

skunk smell.

words so empty,

so abstract --

may as well

use them. they're

no good

otherwise.

Jack Kerouac

was not afraid

of words.

Dave Alvin isn't

afraid of his

guitar.

California dirt

looks different

than

Oregon dirt.

a lot drier.

and the trees

have California

shapes.

on the bench

in front of

The Legend of Bigfoot

store sits a fat man

with a bushy

white beard.

his pretty wife is

pissed. she wants

him to come inside

and help her pick out

a statue.

I'm not going in there!

he says. I've

made a decision

and I'm not

going in.

she wants

a souvenir

and he's being

a jerk.

what a jerk. he'll

pay for it.

he ought to just

go inside and

help her pick out

a bear or

a gnome

carved in wood

with a chainsaw.

that would be

wiser than arguing

with her out here

in the heat.

how did this fat

old guy, this

stubborn jerk

get a pretty

young wife?

I wonder if he

gave in later.

the trouble, if

he wins, won't

be worth

the few bucks

a statue would

cost him.

cheap mean

bastard.

we pulled off

the freeway in

downtown

Santa Rosa

to change drivers.

and got stuck

in a big traffic

mess

workmen

tearing up the

streets, pouring

fresh asphalt

around new

manhole covers.

expect delays

the sign said.

I always do.

I was hoping to

find a place to

take a leak.

no such luck.

flat land now.

no more redwoods

a few palm trees,

some eucalyptus

and lots of

scrubby dried

California trees.

I don't know what

kind -- just

California trees.

ah! truck stop

& shop -- they have

a restroom. I buy

a coffee from

the friendly clerk.

back in the car,

I find my

uneaten chocolate

bar, half

melted but still

good.

traveling

is going from

one place full of

people to

another place

full of people

through long

empty places

full of

nobody.

wherever you are --

there you are

said somebody.

wherever you go,

you're in the

center of the

universe.

you're always home,

or

always lost.

parked in a big

garage across

the street and

checked into

The Commodore,

room 614.

the elevator

is small and has

two heavy doors --

one that slides and

a second that pushes

out.

maximum occupancy:

five (in 3 languages).

we found

a painting

laying on the sidewalk

in San Francisco.

it was a pretty good

painting, after

the manner of

Basquiat, done

on cardboard.

we left it there.

boarding the BART

at the Powell

Station

underground, the

recorded voice of

a woman

announcing arrivals

and departures

reminded me of

that 1970s sci-fi

movie,

Logan's Run.

I gave out money

to four panhandlers,

two guys selling

a newspaper

put out by & for

the homeless,

a smooth talker

who gave me

directions to

Sutter Street and

asked for a buck,

a shaky woman

begging on a corner

who looked like

an addict.

I'm an easy mark.

a sucker.

that's okay.

I can afford to be.

having our dinner

in a quiet little

cafe & bar

a block or two from

our hotel, The

Commodore, when

a white stretch

limo pulls up

and a driver/

body guard

gets out,

does a slow 360°

surveillance, then

a man in

what my wife says

is an $800 suit,

gets out, does

his own careful

look around, they

both come inside,

sit at the bar,

have drinks and

appetizers.

midway thru

my chicken

sandwich I

visit the men's

room. I hear

the door open

behind me, hear

someone washing

his hands. I just

know it's the

man in the $800

suit. zip up,

turn to wash

my own hands.

yup, it's him.

I smile, say

how you doing?

he smiles back.

I knew it was him.

half an hour later,

when they leave,

both do another

full scan of

the street before

getting into the

limo.

we all are

convinced

those guys were

mafia. they had

that confident yet

alert air about

them, like

all hell might

break out at

any given

moment.

my brown

leather shoes

are dusty and scuffed.

I didn't have time to

polish them

before the trip.

my new white

tennis shoes, so

white they

glow, so

white I'm

embarrassed to be

seen in them.

up on the sixth floor

of our downtown

hotel, the wind

buffets the windows

all night.

around 2 AM

a couple of

fire engines

race by

on the street

below.

my wife wants to visit

the alleys of Chinatownshe has me write down

a list of them

from the Hidden

guidebook:

Hang Ah Street

Spofford Lane

Ross Alley

Waverly Place.

The only one we found

was Waverly Place.

she wanted to go inside

a Buddhist temple

on Waverly

but when she

actually saw it,

she chickened out.

a place where I

really felt the

presence of Jack

Kerouac, where I

pictured him having been,

was in the old

catholic church in

Chinatown,

historic and now

being renovated. I

imagined him

ducking in there

for a quick

prayer at

an altar of

candles.

we left the

windows open

and our curtains

are fluttering

in San Francisco.

Chinatown

fish markets and

produce stalls

in the non-tourist

streets off the

main commercial

strip -- where the

Chinese people do

their daily grocery

shopping.

odd smells and strange

sights. a live

fish flopping on

a metal tray. later,

men standing in the back of

a big truck picking up

flattened cardboard boxes for

recycling.

a long day

of walking around

and spending

money. my feet

were tired by 3:00.

after that, it was

a matter of

sheer endurance.

Chinatown on a

Tuesday morning,

like being in

a foreign country.

old women

buying groceries

and laughing.

Chinatown

all morning.

then North Beach,

City Lights Books

where we go

down into the

basement and

pay homage

to the Beats

who hung out

there a half

century ago.

remnants of the biblical inscription

of a religious cult

that once occupied the

basement still on the walls.

upstairs, great

posters on the walls,

one of Bukowski

reading at City

Lights, another

advertising a

reading by Ginsberg

and in places

all over the shop,

handwritten signs

by Ferlinghetti.

Stuck in the window

in Kerouac Alley, a bent

old tin sign -- "City

Lights Pocket Book Shop"

that must be the original

sign for the shop

from the early 50s.

we ate a big lunch

in an Italian cafe

nearby. the waitress

is new in town,

here only a month

from New York City --

she misses the

summer heat.

we took our leftover

pizza and spaghetti

in styrofoam

clamshells and

gave them to

a ragged and

homeless man

so rummy he

could barely

say thanks, but

he was glad

to have the food.

then we walked

around North Beach

while I located

a couple apartments

Richard Brautigan

had lived in

and took photos

of them, as well

as a picture

of the Ben

Franklin statue

in Washington Square

Park that can be

seen on the cover

of Brautigan's book,

America. only

in my photo,

instead of Brautigan

standing there with

a hippie woman

sitting by him on

a stool, and

the statue behind

them, there is

nobody,

just the statue.

what my photo

doesn't show is

people all around,

laying on the grass,

hanging out,

enjoying the park.

more on finding two

of Brautigan's

residences --

the first place we

found was an

apartment he occupied

in the late 60s, at

1427 Kearny, a

couple blocks east

of Washington Square

Park. Kearny is very

steep here, about a

30 to 40° grade.

luckily for us, his apartment

is about half a block

up this steep street

off of the cross street,

Union, which is

relatively flat, so it

wasn't too exerting

a walk for us.

as we ascended,

looking for the exact

address, a couple of

workmen came down

in the opposite direction,

carrying very long pieces

of lumber. it was

somewhat comic, the two

guys carrying these long

boards down a steep

street, like a scene

from a Laurel and Hardy

or Three Stooges movie.

a bit of whimsy, as if

Richard's spirit was

acknowledging us.

the second place

we found was

an apartment at

557A Greenwich,

where Brautigan lived in

1956 and later, in 1961,

with his first wife,

Ginny. it's only a

block north and a half

block east of Washington

Square Park, on a

relatively level street.

557A is one door of four

sharing the same porch.

I took a couple

photos of the

front of the

building & the

porch, then

discovered, on the

right, a long narrow

walkway leading to the

back of the building,

closed off from the

public by an iron

gate, through which

I took another

snapshot that I hope

shows a bit of the

backyard.

It wasn't a very long

walk from there

to Embarcadero,

the pier,

the sea lions barking

and a bunch of

tourist shops that

reminded me of

Ports of Call in

San Pedro.

by then, my feet

were tired and

my knees were

starting to hurt.

from there, we

caught a bus

to Giardelli Square,

an old chocolate

factory converted

into a shopping mall.

more tourist stores

and a chocolate

shop.

I had our route

back to the hotel

mapped out,

found the bus

we wanted, but

made the mistake

of asking the driver

if it went

downtown, when

what I really wanted

wasn't precisely

downtown, but

our hotel that is

almost downtown

so he told us to

take the 45 and

then the 30 instead

of the 19, and an

old Chinese woman

chimed in.

well, I said, I think

this bus, the 19, will

take us where we're

going, so we got on

and sat down,

and I was right,

I compared every

street we passed

against the map

and we were headed

straight for our

hotel, but the old

woman wouldn't give

up, she kept

insisting we

get off at the next

stop and transfer

to the 45, and

when we got to the

next street, she got

off, and my wife

followed her, even

though I wanted

to stay on the 19.

what the hell.

we didn't have much

choice. the kids and I

got off too.

my wife followed

the old woman

to the bus stop

to catch the 45.

we were practically

speechless, shocked

that she would

abandon our

prearranged course

and follow this

old woman who

really didn't even

know our true

destination and

whom we could

barely understand.

but follow her

she did. a minute

later, the 45 bus

pulled up, and the

old woman told the

driver to take us to

Market Street.

who the hell said

anything about

Market St? we

wanted Sutter!

then my wife got on,

the old woman got on,

I got on and the

kids got on.

I asked my wife

why she was doing

what this old woman

said, and she

explained that she

didn't want to

hurt her feelings.

rather than do that,

my wife would

follow the old

woman's instructions,

regardless of where it

might take us.

oh well.

what can you do?

so we rode the 45.

a few blocks later,

the old woman

got off, but not

before she once again

instructed the driver to

take us to Market St.

The driver then explained

to us that the 45 would

join up with and turn

into the 30, the

Stockton line, and

that it would go

thru the Stockton

Tunnel. when it

got out of the

Tunnel, we would

be at Sutter.

that sounded okay.

it would be the

wrong end of Sutter,

but close enough.

everyone on the bus

thought we were all

nuts, ranting and

raving about what

route to take.

my wife thought

she did the right

thing.

we arrived at the

same general

destination, but

by a different

course.

I'm still trying to

figure out why she

was so quick to

completely abandon

the plan I'd made

and adopt the plan

of a stranger.

but then, I'm always

trying to understand

why she does

the things

she does.

in the end, it

really made no

difference

what route we took --

we ended up

downtown.

wherever you go,

there you are,

or so someone said.

my wife says

woman was like

a spirit guide,

and she trusted her.

I think she was

simply too embarrassed

to ignore her

insistent

commands to take

the 45 route, so

she went along

with it.

I still have

no idea why

she wanted the

drivers to have us

get off on

Market.

"Market!" said

the driver when

we exited the bus

at Sutter.

I'll have to look on

the map and see

where the hell

Market St. is

and why they both

thought we ought

to go there.

Virgin Records,

feet killing me,

but they do have

a restroom on

the third floor.

back to the hotel

finally, changed

from my tennis shoes

to the brown leather

saddle shoes,

dinner again

at the same little

cafe as last night,

only no limo,

no gangsters

this night.

what if

the 45 bus

had taken us

out to Oakland?

what then???

but it didn't,

it took us

downtown, just

like the old

Chinese woman

said it would.

bought a 2 part

unfinished biography

of Neal Cassady

at City Lights,

the one book I

was sure I would

probably never

see again

anywhere.

thought I saw

A.D. Winans

walking along

in North Beach

talking books

with some

other guy.

it sure looked

like him

judging from

photos I've

seen.

it might have

been him.

or it might

have been

somebody else

I've never heard of.

I'd rather think

it was Winans.

my feet are

going to have

their own dreams

tonight.

I took a photo

of that Bukowski

poster. that made

me feel like a

ridiculous tourist,

but I didn't care,

I wanted to

remember that

poster later

back in Salem

when the trip was

over and gone.

anyway, didn't really

feel like an out of

town hick tourist -- hell,

I'd been reading the

Beats before most of the

guys in City Lights that day

were born, and I'd first

been in there in 1968 or 1969.

all of the time

we've been in

San Francisco, I

haven't seen

a single

grocery store.

lots of exotic

seafoods and

vegetables in

Chinatown, but

no regular

American

super market.

my feet still are

tired

the next morning.

today, we have

tickets to the

Chagall exhibit

at the Museum

of Modern Art.

instead of a

restaurant or cafe,

we got breakfast

food at a tiny

mini-mart.

I'm having

apple turnovers and

hotel room brewed

drip coffee.

we got to the

San Francisco

Museum of Modern Art

an hour too early

so we went to

Starbucks and got

green tea,

coffee lattes,

hot cocoa.

a great Chagall

exhibition. I took

off my glasses and

stared close at the

paintings, inches

from the surface

to get a good look at

his technique. in

some areas the paint

is thick and bold,

other places, fine

wispy

tracings. always

precise, he knew

what he wanted to do,

yet completely free,

he wasn't worried

about any particular

element beyond its

purpose & function

in the overall

composition. but

what do I know

about art? the

important thing is

that his work

is full of spirit --

that's the reason for

his universal

appeal.

good thing we were almost

first in line -- by

the time we got out,

the lines were long

and slow -- hours

of waiting for those

poor folks.

my wife & I had pizza

and Pepsi in

the museum cafe,

then, later, the

kids had Mexican

food down the

street.

I gave the box

of leftover

Mexican food to

the first homeless man

we met -- he looked

crazy, poor soul,

hunchbacked, wild

eyed, one mad

tooth sticking out --

said "yeah, yeah"

when I asked him

if he was hungry.

his last day before

officially retiring,

the gray-haired

old cable car

conductor drove

the car one more

time, nostalgic

pulling the brake

levers, laughing

with the other

drivers.

when he got off for

the last time, all

the other drivers

shook his hand and

slapped him on

the back. after

that, a young guy

took over,

years and years

away from

retirement himself.

I wasn't sure where we

wanted to get off,

or how to let

the driver know.

I pulled the cord that

rang a bell weakly

and we all jumped

off a half block

from our Russian Hill

destination:

Russel Street, a

short alley,

where Jack Kerouac

lived at number 29 with

Neal & Carolyn

Cassady in the

1950s, in a small

brown house.

in that tiny attic,

he wrote some

of his books.

of course, we

had to take

a picture of

that house.

what next?

my feet hurt and

I had to pee --

I was ready to

head back to the

hotel, but

my wife wasn't

done -- she

wanted to see

crooked Lombard St.,

a steep zig-zagging

one way

street down a

hill, and

from there, off

we walked

to the edge

of Pacific Heights,

talked to

a friendly guy

on the street

who gave us

directions,

then caught the 30

bus, got more

directions from

the driver and

a lady passenger

(again, like the day before,

they were a little

too helpful,

they wouldn't let us

make any

dumb tourist mistakes --

you sure you're

going the right

direction asked

the driver?),

rode a ways,

got off,

transferred to

the 22 bus

which did take

us weaving thru

the center of

Pacific Heights.

I was too occupied

studying maps,

figuring where to jump off

for our best

chances of getting back

to the hotel, to pay

attention to the view.

not an easy call,

because I didn't have

a bus route map

with me for this

part of the city,

but when I saw

we would cross

Sutter, I decided

that we'd get off

there. then all we

had to do was head

east an unknown

distance and we'd

be back at The

Commodore.

found

ourselves

in Japan town

where my youngest

daughter bought a

bead at a bead store.

the 3 bus came

along, and it was

going up Sutter,

then a block over

to Post where it

would pass within

a block of the hotel

at Levenworth.

a good thing we

took that last bus

instead of walking.

it was a long ways

to Leavenworth and

we were all

pretty exhausted

walking that one

last block to

The Commodore

Hotel.

everyone too tired

to think about

dinner right now --

maybe later after

we rest our feet

a while.

Friday AM --

Judy's birthday.

last night, for her

birthday, Taryn took

her mom out for

a drink at

Vesuvio's. they

took a taxi

there & back.

I was just too

exhausted to go,

stayed in the hotel

room with the

two younger girls

and read a

book I'd brought

on the trip --

my wife & Taryn

came back

about an hour

and a half later --

they had a

good time --

lots of photos of

Kerouac and the

Beats all over

Vesuvio's.

also last night,

we knew that

Ferlinghetti was

speaking at

City Lights, and

would have gone but

all of us were

too tired for

a big trek over

there, the event

itself which might

have lasted a couple

hours, and then

the trip back.

a chance to see

him, but it had been

a long day already.

it was all I could do

laying on the bed,

reading.

made coffee

in the room

and bought rolls

and muffins at

the mini-market

a few doors down

from the hotel --

trying to save

our cash -- almost

broke at the end

of our trip.

checked out -- our

bill came to

$950 for three

nights -- not

cheap! we put

that on a credit

card.

needed another $55

to pay the parking

bill. we only

had about $30 cash --

got the rest out

of an

ATM.

at the parking

garage, the guy

had to move

four other cars

to get ours out.

they're parked tight,

inches apart, in

there like

sardines -- he

makes me think

of a young

Neal Cassady,

running from car

to car,

jockeying them

around to

get out ours

at the back

of the lot.

load up the

luggage, turn in

the key cards at

the hotel

front desk,

everyone in and

we leave.

on the

Golden Gate

Bridge, call

boxes for

emergencies and

crisis counseling:

DON'T JUMP!

IT CAN'T BE

THAT BAD!

Hwy 128 West

twisty turny

thru the mountains

to the coast.

long and

uneventful

except when some

idiot slammed on

his brakes and

came to a full

stop, for no

reason, and I

had to slam on

mine, came

within a foot of

rear-ending him.

black crow

eating something

on the road. I

assumed he'd

fly away before

I reached him.

he tried to, but

too late, and

glanced off the

car fender,

with an awful

thump -- I felt

bad for hitting

him. felt a

little better when

the kids said

he flew away,

poor bird.

next time, I'll

slow down more

coming up on a

bird in the road.

driving along &

remembering the

Chagall paintings,

his often

repeated images

of the joy of

life: bridal

couples, lovers

laying together,

roosters and

goats, old men --

maybe they're

uncles, playing

orange violins.

they have peasant

caps, wool coats

and long beards.

a cow speaking

Hebrew letters.

villages, people,

angels, his

beloved first

wife. he used

these things as symbols

in a private

language that

everyone can

understand.

suddenly,

back in the redwoods

on a winding

mountain

highway.

I bet Jack &

Neal had beers

in that little bar

around the corner

from the brown

cottage on Russel.

I can imagine

Neal sneaking off

for a quick one

there when

Carolyn was pissed

at him over

something. or

Neal telling Jack

to meet him

there.

they walked those

very sidewalks.

a foggy bay,

Highway 1 North --

19 miles to

Ft. Bragg.

last night,

sitting in Vesuvio's,

staring out the window

toward the entrance

to City Lights Books,

my wife thought

she saw

the ghost of

Jack Kerouac

walking quickly

past Kerouac Alley,

dressed in

white shirt,

black pants, with

dark Kerouac hair,

Kerouac face, he

smiled at her

in a funny way,

then was suddenly

gone, and she had

the strangest

feeling, as if it

were Jack himself,

his old ghost

from 1957.

silly, she

admits, but

that's what

she thinks she

saw: Kerouac's ghost.

Mendocino,

pretty coastal town

where they filmed

East of Eden,

starring James Dean.

it looks like a

New England

seaport town,

wooden water towers

standing all over,

everywhere you look.

kind of a tourist

trap, still a

nice place.

Fort Bragg -- a

non-descript

beach town, except

for Glass Beach, where

a million bottles

shattered and died

and have been

polished by the

waves of the

20th Century into

colored jewel-like

fragments that cover

the beach thick

as sand.

they have the rough

gemstone look

of ancient stones

pried from

king's crowns.

lots of white and

brown and green

-- hardly any blue glass,

and those

are tiny pieces.

no internet

access in

Fort Bragg on

our MSN

dial up. the

numbers ring okay,

but some guy

picks up and

talks -- voice

fuzzed & unintelligible.

no email tonight,

that's okay.

a cheap dinner

of microwave

heat up meals

from the Safeway --

we're almost broke,

down to our last

few bucks in cash.

but I got two

bottles of beer,

and they cost a lot less

than that $3.50 a bottle

brew in the

San Francisco

restaurants.

standing on

the deck of

our Ft. Bragg

hotel room,

staring at the

cold estuary water,

fog rolling in early,

a couple of birds

fly by overhead.

leaving Fort Bragg

on the old

Coast Highway 1

thru pretty woods,

overcast morning

fog hanging in

the tree tops.

in San Francisco I

drank Bud Lite

with my dinners

but in Fort Bragg

it was

Michelob.

wisps of cloud

clinging to

hillsides.

black wet rocks

sticking up from

cold white waves.

we don't see

any whales out

there.

twisting road

thru the coastal

mountain forests.

farmhouses,

sand dunes,

windswept trees.

abandoned shacks,

weathered gray,

not yet

fallen down.

soon we'll be

on 101.

unpaved dirt

logging roads

snaking down

out of the woods

to join the

highway.

but it's

Saturday morning

and we don't

meet any

log trucks

on the road.

driving thru fog

on mountain road,

my wife keeps

crossing the center

line; I'm worried

we'll run smack

into on-coming

traffic. she's

a wild driver,

has more faith

than I do

in good luck.

she's scaring me.

I'm trying not

to say anything,

but a few

"slow down"s

and

"watch out"s

slip out.

lunch at a

pizza place in

Arcata, where

two tvs played

different stations,

plus music;

who wants to hear

that much noise?

the long drive north

on 101 towards

Crescent City. it's

been raining

off & on

all day.

no restroom

for miles,

I pulled off

at a turn out,

parked the car,

walked behind

a big redwood

and took a leak,

hidden from the

passing traffic.

cigarette butts

and styrofoam cups

back there -- I'm

not the first guy

who did this.

ate lots of

pizza because

we're not stopping

for dinner.

we're driving thru.

signs on 101 say

Redwood Highway.

big red barn

with a patched roof

outside Arcata.

tan ponies

lazing in the

dry grass.

hours ago

we passed

thousands of hippie

kids camped out

for a giant

Reggae music

festival by

the river in

the middle of

the mountain

woods.

it's already

afternoon, and

we have a long

way to go.

highway sign says

Portland 381 miles.

--that makes Salem

about 300 -- not

too far. I was

afraid it was

more like 500

miles. that's

good news.

a string of cars

coming down the hill

all with their

lights on,

tenderly.

no elk at

Elk Crossing, it's

raining again.

my turn

behind the wheel.

six hours

from Crescent City

to Eugene,

stopping at the

McDonald's in

Grants Pass

to use the

restrooms,

I got coffee to

stay alert.

another

McDonald's in

Sutherlin,

grabbed fries

for dinner,

then on to Eugene.

dropped my

second oldest

daughter off in

Eugene.

in Grants Pass,

twisty mountain

Hwy 199 connects

with I-5,

and from there

on North, it's

a wide, smooth

freeway, no more

narrow 2 lane roads

overlooking sheer cliffs,

much easier

driving, make

better time,

heading home.

we ought to be in

Salem by 8:30.

we've done the

drive from Eugene

to Salem countless

times, but it

looks and feels

different,

as the last leg

of a trip

home from

San Francisco,

and I see things

I hadn't noticed

before, or had

long ago began

ignoring.

like, for example,

it's obviously

farm land, although

I seldom think of it

as such -- flat

fields gone

the color of straw

in the dry heat,

a fertile valley

ridged by

mountains, a

long way from

San Francisco

in every way.

Sunday afternoon,

home from the trip.

unpacking suitcases,

doing a weeks'

worth of laundry.

(END)

4:32 PM - 9 Comments - 7 Kudos - Add Comment

videos of Willamette U. reading.
Current mood: breezy
Category: Writing and Poetry

Three clips are up on You Tube:

http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=DavidBarkerPoet

Sorry about the picture quality.  Judy shot these using our digital camera (not a camcorder) and I had to compress two of the files to fit You Tube's size limits, so they are pixilated.  Or is it me that's pixilated?

3:16 PM - 0 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

two young poets worth your time
Current mood: awake
Category: Writing and Poetry

I've read countless small press poets in my time, and the vast majority are talented people who have a way with words, but -- sadly -- their work is easily forgotten.  It falls short somehow: not saying anything worth hearing, or saying it, but badly; the content is worthy but the execution fails.  You come away with a feeling that you've seen all you need to see, that further investment of your time would not pay off.  You want to like them, you want to enjoy their work, but time is short and it's just not worth the effort.  If they would only say what's really on their mind.  Say it as clearly as they can.  Using memorable, striking imagry.  As if they are in love with language.  Almost never do you have all of that in one poet.  You might have the intellect, the gift for language, but the work is cold and gives you no feel for the person behind it.  Or you might have a live body but a less than solid craft.

Okay.  And then there are the good ones.  The really good ones.  Those who have it all and are using it, burning it like fuel.  A handful of small press poets come to mind.  I'm not going to name them all because I would forget a few and feelings would be hurt, but I will name just two as primary examples of the gift unimpeded.  A man and a woman.  Both 30ish.  John Dorsey and Debbie Kirk.  If I had to name my favorite young small press poets, these two would be at the top of the list.

I've written about John Dorsey before.  He's a vagabond angel, a word lunatic, a visionary.  I saw him read at The Beat Museum and it blew me away.  If Gregory Corso and Allen Ginsberg have a spiritual heir, it's John Dorsey.  He is carrying the torch, lighting the landscape, singing alone in the wasteland.  There is nobody that touches him.  Nobody comes close.  True genius.  Every poem is a complete reward for the moments spent reading it.  I feel honored to have met him.  I hope to God I see him read again.

Debbie Kirk came out of nowhere, machine guns blazing, a fugitive, taking no prisoners, moving fast, a furious meteor, arc of fire across the sky, unprecedented, unpredictable.  Unschooled.  Professors should sit at her feet, taking notes.  I don't understand why Borders shelves aren't lined with her collected works.  Somebody in the orders dept has fucked up big.  What she does on paper is pure magic.  It's alive, breathing, bleeding, weeping.  Where does she get this stuff?  How does she know exactly what to do with the words?  Why can't anyone else do it quite as well, with equal impact?   Watching her is, I imagine, like it would have been to watch Sylvia Plath a half century ago.  It just has to be seen to be believed.

There may be better young poets out there, but I doubt it.  A gift that big is hard to keep secret.

I suggest you track down the books of these two and read them, and hang onto them.

2:32 PM - 6 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment