The Gorko Gazette

THE FACE OF ART

The celebrated poet died last week.

He’d written hundreds and hundreds
of books across the years

visited many countries
gave countless readings
and speeches in little rooms.

He held court at tables in pubs
and bars throughout the land
far into the night

declaiming the truth that evil
is powerless in the face of art

but throughout it all

the wars didn’t stop
and the downtrodden remained
as they were.

Those in charge of violence
remained oblivious to his words
and his name.

Still, at the news of his death
we marched in the streets

we sang songs
and waved flowers
in his honor.

Later we sat drinking wine
talking of his genius

as somewhere far away
another building collapsed into fire.

---

Immortality

Time has it in for me like never before
and these dreams of immortality
refuse to chase themselves.
All my half-assed and half-finished
poems are crumpled in my pockets
and scattered about this table
in this Grant St. dive
that was once a coffeehouse
where Janis played when she first
came to San Francisco
back in more colorful times.
Now it’s the tail end of summer
in what passes for the 21st century,
each day shorter than the last.
They’re playing early Black Sabbath
and my beer tastes of pine.
The women are beautiful
beneath the North Beach sun
as they always are.
The bartender is called Lily,
she’s tattooed, apathetic, and a little mean
in the way that bartenders can be.
I don’t have it in me to pretend
to have much of anything to say
that I haven’t bored you with
a few times over
so I drink my beer and watch the girls
as a hair metal band reminds me
that we don’t need nuthin’
but a good time.
I nod along
to the wisdom of music
deciding immortality
is for chumps
and losers.

---

The Same Poem I Always Write

It’s the Lush Lounge on Polk St.
I order a blood orange IPA
and Crystal the pretty bartender says,
It’s a blood orange kinda day.
I affirm this simple truth and retire
to my table by the window
where I scribble words
on paper scraps
with nothing in particular to declare
other than the usual half-formed thoughts
upon the absurdity of life
and the absurdity of death
and the fact of myself
caught between the two
with my tiny mumblings
against the void.
It’s the same poem I always write
but I like to think each time
with some new sound or color or gesture
some new snapshot of continuing
that someone might see
and understand in their way.
The hours turn to ghosts
and these useless moments
come and go and we jump
from each to each like
tiny islands as they disappear
because we don’t know
what else to do.
I figure if the big gray sky
cast up over the sad old buildings
has the power to break my heart
on more days than not
that’s reason enough
to continue.

---

about the artist

William Taylor Jr. lives and writes in San Francisco. He is the author of numerous books of poetry, and a volume of fiction. His work has been published widely in literary journals, including Rattle, The New York Quarterly, and The Chiron Review. He was a recipient of the 2013 Kathy Acker Award, and edited Cocky Moon: Selected Poems of Jack Micheline (Zeitgeist Press, 2014). His latest poetry collection, A Room Above a Convenience Store, is available from Roadside Press.

Image generated on Canva

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