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The Famous Dead Poet’s House

I went to the famous dead poet’s house
on a Thursday afternoon
because I am paid to do such things.
The famous dead poet had been dead
a few years when the offspring
were notified that the house
had been sold and the dead poet’s things
were to be cleared out within the week.
I was there to dig through the mess of it
with the hope of finding something
that could be auctioned off
for big money.
The famous dead poet’s house
was a disappointment to me,
a generic thing in an upscale
San Francisco neighborhood,
nothing befitting a famous dead poet.
When I arrived the famous dead poet’s
daughter met me outside.
She was arguing on her phone
with someone about one of the in-laws,
saying she didn’t want him around
picking through all the stuff.
If that fucker comes by, she said, I’m bailing.
She ended the call and told me
not to talk to the fucker if he came by
and then took me down to an oppressively
hot and dimly lit garage where
the famous dead poet’s books
sat dusty upon plastic shelves
and left me there to pick through them
in search of undiscovered treasure.
It was an unexceptional library,
ordinary editions of all the books
you would expect. Mostly poetry
by other dead poets, the usual
works of literature and philosophy
and a smattering of new age junk.
I found a first edition of Ginsberg’s
collected poems inscribed by him
to the famous dead poet.
I showed it to the famous dead poet’s kid
and her eyes lit up as she asked me
what it was worth. I told her what
it was worth and her eyes went dim again
as she set it back upon the shelf.
I scanned the books a while more
until I had to tell her there was
nothing else worth mentioning.
She pointed to a pile of boxes
which she claimed held things of a more
personal nature and hovered about as I
shuffled through random indecipherable
papers, scribbled notes for classes
and workshops, things of mild interest
and little value. I grew weary of the sad
boxes and their sad contents and I gave
the famous dead poet’s kid my card
and told her to call if she discovered anything
of interest I may have overlooked.
She took it with a disappointed gaze
acknowledging my failure.
I trudged sweaty up the hard stone stairs
out of the dark and the heat and the sad old books,
the boxes of dust and death and disappointment
and emerged beneath the afternoon sun
feeling better straight away.

Mourning

Lawrence Ferlinghetti died three days ago
and since then my artist friend has wandered
the streets of North Beach with a haunted face

his hands clasped tight behind him
like the old men of Chinatown

with the jacket, hat, and scarf
he wears most every day, looking like something
from a painting by Toulouse-Lautrec.

When he passes City Lights he pauses
to gaze at the memorials, the bunches
of flowers strewn about the sidewalk

and solemnly kneels to read
something someone has written
on the concrete in bright pink chalk.

He stays there, motionless, his eyes
staring deep into some other place.

I’m not close enough to say for sure
but I imagine a single tear plowing
slowly down his cheek.

When he rises he turns to me and says
with a voice like something coming up for air

I’ve been interviewed by three television crews today,
because they could sense I was in MOURNING!

He speaks the word like he means it in the purest sense
and his eyes shine with grief as he wanders off.

A part of me considers it all a bit absurd
a performative show

but maybe he’s the only guy around
who remembers how to mourn a poet
the way a poet should be mourned

another art all but lost
into this dark mess of everything
devouring whatever light
we try and give.

Another Little Piece

It was North Beach,
I was drinking outside Tupelo
on Grant Avenue.
The bartender was beautiful
and drunk as she ran outside
to tell the guy in the bigass truck
to quit honking his fucking horn.
After he flipped her off
and sped away she asked
if I thought she’d been rude
and I said hell no, he had it coming.
She lit a cigarette and asked
what I was reading. It was
some pretentious tome
and when I spoke of it her eyes
glossed over and she told me
how she’d just finished
a biography of Janis Joplin.
She told me how she’d loved
Janis ever since she was a kid
because they shared the same energy.
She told me how when Janis first
came to San Francisco she would sing
at the bar on the corner just a few
feet from where we stood,
back when it was still the Coffee Gallery.
We talked of the history of the city
and of the neighborhood
the literature and the music
and at some point she ran inside
for more cigarettes and brought
me another beer. She told me
how Grant St. was the very first
road built in San Francisco
and many other things that I forget.
Her hair was gold beneath the sun
as it disappeared between the old
wooden buildings
and I wanted to disintegrate
into forever beneath her gaze.
Her cheeks glistened with quiet tears
as she spoke of Janis and her messy
tragic life and then the sun was gone
and we were both very drunk.
She hugged me and said
I was beautiful
and I hugged her and said
she was beautiful.
When I got home I ordered
a copy of the book
and though in the past
I never much thought about
Janis one way or another
when I sat down and watched
the video of her singing
“Ball and Chain”
at the Monterey Pop Festival
I may have teared up a bit myself.

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.

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