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Dorothy A Apr 2012
The first time that Evan laid eyes on her, he told himself that he was going to marry her. Embarrassed by his own fantasy, he quickly dismissed that thought as fast as it came to mind, telling himself what an idiot he was. Yet, from time to time, in spite of his reasoning, the thought would invade his skull.

What a dumb idea anyhow! It was just lame, teenage fantasyland! Girls did that kind of junk all the time, saying they were going to be Mrs. So-and-so, and thank God nobody could read his mind to know what he was dreaming up! Like she would marry him! He felt like a dumb ****, great in athletics, but far out of her league. Not even having the courage yet to ask a girl out on a date, and now he was already thinking of marriage! Pathetic! Really! Only a freshman in high school, he felt he should know better, lacking the good common sense his dad always tried to drive into him and had himself.

Ginny Delgado belonged with the smart kids, the brains of the school, although she seemed to stick more by herself, away from any stereotypical clique. Evan had first seen her in his biology class, and he remembered when other students wanted to copy off of her test papers. She never allowed any of that to happen, though, even if it would gain her popularity, false popularity but attention just the same.

It was a surprise to him that Ginny seemed to have few friends. Mostly, girls who were nerdy and smart did not seem very attractive or put together. Ginny seemed to have it all. She was smart and pretty, but she never identified with any of the girls who thought they were hot—and all other girls were not—and so she stood apart as one who shrouded herself in guarded aloofness.

And now here he was at his 20th high school reunion, one he really did not want to attend, but talked himself into going anyway. Perhaps, he could shoot the breeze and run into a few old buddies, his basketball friends. He didn't think that much of Ginny since he graduated from Fillmore, much less anybody from all those years ago. There really wasn’t any reason to reminisce once high school was behind him. School was not misery for Evan Stewart, but it wasn’t a time where everything seemed magical and carefree, not like for some students who looked upon those days as some of the fondest memories of their lives.

It was the class of ’92, and a huge banner displayed across one of the walls read, “Welcome back, class of 1992! Fillmore High School rules!” There was a good turnout, and Evan recognized a lot of people, although there were fewer that he knew by name.  

Sitting under dimly light lights, around a bunch of round tables, Evan now sat with the other alumni, stuck in a crowded hall with music blaring away from the early nineties. He had his overpriced meal. He had his few beers.

But what now?

He was almost bored to death. He was beginning to watch the clock more and more, scanning the room to see if he could possibly find reason to stay longer.  But then something happened that he never expected to happen, never even would have imagined it.

And, suddenly, his heart started to pick up its pace.

Was that her?

Evan thought he had made out the vague shape of a possibly familiar figure, an amazing and sudden surprise. Was that Ginny Delgado?

He wondered if he was seeing things as he intently stared across the room at the shadowy prospective of Ginger Delgado. But with the low amount of lighting, it just might not be her but someone he never even met before. How awkward would what be?

If it was Ginny, she was sitting next to a guy who seemed obnoxious and full of himself. Even from afar, he appeared to be a guy who would be in everyone’s face, with wild hand gestures, talking away and giving nobody else a chance for a word in edgewise.  If that really was Ginny, was that her husband? What a trip that would be! All the sense he once attributed to her would have to have gone out the window, if that were the case.

Sitting at Evan’s table were several of the other guys that were also heavy into high school basketball. Most were married and came with their wives—nobody was alone as Evan was—and now they all tried to act like they were thrilled to be all gathered together to show off their accomplishments. They were all passing around stories of life after high school, after basketball—some with talk of their college days, their wives, their kids, their jobs and careers—plenty of drinks to go around, and some toasting to the good, old days and to even brighter futures ahead. Evan was never married and did not have any children, so he felt he had much less to say. Most of those guys were not even very interesting, even though they tried to make it out that they had achieved so much in their lives. They may have been out of shape and past their prime, but all of them tried to act like they were the same as they were twenty years ago. None of what they all said impressed Evan at all, even though he tried to be interested.

He kept looking at the woman across the room, and the more he looked at her, the more he was convinced he was spot on about her. She had to be Ginny! He should just get up now and have the guts to ask her! But what would she say? Yes, I am Ginny Delgado, and this pushy **** next to me is my husband?

Though he was twenty years older, Evan felt just as awkward and as scared as he did in his freshman Biology class. It was better to just let the issue be. He’d rather save face than look like a total fool.

Suddenly, the unexpected occurred, something that gave Evan’s heart even more of a stir than he initially had when he spied her presence. Was it possible? Ginny now looked like she was starring back at him, as if they had somehow miraculously locked eyes and she had an uncanny ability to notice him back, from that afar off, now being transfixed onto him!  

You’ve really lost it now. What do you think, that she really notices you and remembers you?

Ginny stopped paying attention to the obnoxious man beside her and kept looking in Evan’s direction. She even reached her hand up and gave a little wave out his way.

Timidly, Evan waved back.

Standing up, Ginny started to make her way across the room. The obnoxious guy next to her looked on after her, like he could not believe she had wanted to part company with him. Evan guessed she was not his wife—thank God for that!

No, there is just no way she is coming over to talk to you. Alright, maybe she is. Get a hold of yourself now! Stop acting like a teenager and act like you actually know something about women. Come on, Evan! Get it together! She is coming.

Evan was right. It was Ginny Delgado! But she stopped short of his table to sit a down at the table in front of him, next to another fellow classmate of theirs, a female student that he vaguely remembered, though he did not know her name.

It was almost a relief she did not come to sit with him! Yet the disappointment was equally there. Seeing her more up close, Evan knew for sure it was Ginny. She was still quite pretty, perhaps even more so now, her medium brown hair and her dark purple dress complimenting each other. Not wanting to stare, Evan couldn’t help but to shoot many glances her way, without trying to be too obvious.
          
She smiled a lot, glad to talk to another person that she knew, and probably glad to be away from the guy she was stuck with before. Her eyes sparkled, and Evan never remembered ever seeing her so unguarded. In biology class, she was quiet, like he tended to be. Now she seemed so different, seemingly freer to be herself. Evan rarely saw her smile in high school, but thought she was very serious and sophisticated.

Before long, the DJ was now playing Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven. Couples at all tables were making their way to the dance floor. Soon, Ginny was approached by some guy who asked her to join him for a dance. She shook her head, no. Nonchalantly, the man turned to the woman that Ginny knew and asked her. She gladly accepted, said something to Ginny as if to have her permission and understanding, and then took the man’s hand to go to the dance floor. Ginny remained at the table by herself, looking on at the dancers with seemingly little regret that she declined an offer.

This might be your only chance, idiot. Are you going to blow it and be a wuss? Go up to her and tell her that you remember her. Go on! It is your perfect chance. What do you have to lose? If she isn’t interested, just go then. You’ve spent enough time here anyway!

“Hi…Ginny Delgado isn’t it?”

Evan asked as he approached her from behind. He cleared his throat. His voice had sounded so gravelly, as if he hadn’t uttered a single word all night. And his heart was beating a mile a minute, and he swore it must have been pulsating through his shirt. He was glad he put his suit jacket back on, for he was probably sweating like crazy.  

Ginny looked up, seemed to look puzzled, but then smiled a little. “I remember you!” she said with growing enthusiasm on her face. “Oh, but I’m sorry. You are going to have to tell me your name again”.

“Evan Stewart”, he replied. “We were in biology class together Remember? We were sophomores.”

A succession of slow songs was now being played, and Ginny’s friend was enjoying the time with her new dance partner. She certainly was in no hurry to make her way back to the table to rejoin sitting and talking with Ginny.

“Oh, sure! I remember now!” Ginny exclaimed. “Evan Stewart. Of course! You were the tall, shy guy that everyone liked because you knew how to win one for us. You were big into baseball, weren’t you?”

“Well, basketball was my best sport. I liked baseball, too, and track”, he replied humbly. It was amazing! She actually remembered more him than he thought she would!  “

Can I sit down and join you?” he asked, his courage and confidence growing.

“Oh, do!” Ginny replied, eagerly.

He felt like he was in seventh heaven. How cool was this? Sitting with Ginny Delgado? It was a bonus to a fairly descent reunion.

“So what have you been up to for the last twenty years?” Evan asked. His face was flush with embarrassment, as if he was just a guy who happened to luck out, but had no real skill in socializing with a woman he once fantasized about.

Ginny laughed a little, putting her hand up to her mouth as if her response was inappropriate. She responded, “You want a few hours? Or should I just give you a one word response?”

Evan smiled, blushing, as he tried to appear smooth and confident. “A one word response?” he asked.

“Yes. I can say it in one word—roller coaster….oops, that is two words”.

They both just sat there as I Can’t Make You Love Me, by Bonnie Raitt, played on.  

“Yeah…I guess I could say that about my life”, Evan agreed. “Would you like me to get you something from the bar?” he offered. “A coke or a beer?”

Ginny stared out onto the floor, as if she never heard him. “Isn’t it amazing how everyone comes to see the same people they always used to hang out with and still intend to hang out with to this day?” she asked. “How boring and predictable!”

Evan looked at her, puzzled, “What do you mean?”

Ginny continued to look out onto the floor, the music now upbeat dance music, and said, “Well, I mean you see all the football heroes all hanging out with each other. The members of the debate team are all huddled together as if they are preparing for the next debate. The cheerleaders, the drama club, the science club geeks…nothing has changed has it?”  

Evan shrugged his shoulders. “I guess that is typical. But that isn’t me. Sure, I saw some of the guys I played ball with, basketball, but the truth is I am not really that interested in hanging out with them.”

Ginny turned to look at him, her hazel eyes intent and solemn. Evan added, “I don’t have any contact with any of them. Nothing against them. I just don’t”.

They looked at each other in the eyes for a while. The silence was awkward. It was as Evan’s watching and waiting for her reply was the cue for Ginny to open up, and open up she did.

“I went to UCLA on a scholarship. I became a history major, world history, American history, women’s history. I never intended to teach, not at first. But it just seemed a good fit for me, and I have had plenty of teaching jobs, junior high school, high school. I moved to Sacramento.  I was briefly married after I got my first real teaching job there.”

Ginny’s eyes glistened. There was a pain in them that seemed locked in deep, not really wanting to expose itself too much, but coming out nonetheless.

Evan listened on, eagerly, so she went on, her gaze towards the dance floor “It did not work out. He cheated. He did it more than once and with more than one woman.  And now that I look back, I can see how wrong it all was, especially after my miscarriage. At first, I was so crushed, and I wanted to try again, for another baby, to try to please him, Jim, my husband. Thank God, I didn’t go on and on with him. I am glad I came back here…..back to Springdale.”

She looked back at Evan. He quickly looked away from her glance, his eyes downcast to the table. She wasn’t kidding. Her life was a roller coaster. He did not know what to say, felt so inadequate.

He decided to just share, in return.

”I was engaged once. It was a long engagement. She was a friend of a friend. Lana was her name. She told me she wanted to be with me, but she just wasn’t ready to make the big leap just right away. Actually, I am kind of glad now that I look back. We both owned our own shops. She was a hair stylist and I owned my own car repair shop, but that was about all we really had in common. I mean not really, even though we both liked sports a lot. We never seemed to agree on anything.”

Like he did, Ginny just listened intently, not attempting to make any reply. Evan added, “She was willing to cut me down in a second. I see that now”.

“Well how do you like that?!”

Evan and Ginny looked up as the woman that Ginny came over to see arrived back from the dance floor. She was walking, hand in hand, with her new found dance partner, fanning herself with her hand and laughing.

“Ginny’s got some company, too!” she exclaimed, beaming at Evan.    

Ginny replied, “Rhonda Flemming, this is Evan Stewart. She used to be Rhonda Boehner back in Fillmore”

Ginny turned to Evan to introduce him to her old classmate. “Evan…Rhonda. Evan, I don’t know if you two ever met each other before when we all went to school”.

“I’m not sure I have, either”, he replied, extending his hand to shake Rhonda’s. Rhonda quickly grabbed hold of his and gave it an overly enthusiastic shake.

“Hi, Evan!” she exclaimed "This handsome man next to me  is Brian. I never knew Brian until he asked me to dance!” she said excitedly. “And I am newly divorced and so is he! How strange is that?”

Brian shook Evan’s hand and then Ginny’s. “How’s it going?” he asked, grinning with embarrassment at Rhonda’s forward frankness.

“Ginny is one of the smartest people”, Rhonda went on to Evan and Brian. “We were once partners in an English class. We had to write a paper about each other. That was so fun in an otherwise booooooring class. Remember, Ginny?”

Ginny rolled her eyes, and made a shooing gesture with her hand to convey that Rhonda did not know what she was talking about. “I’m not as smart as anyone ever thought I was. I just worked hard and did my best, but thanks anyway for the compliment” , she said, modestly.  

“Oh, you were, too, Ginny!” Rhonda disagreed. She had a gleeful glint in her eyes. “Always so serious, Ginny Delgado! “

Rhonda grabbed Brian’s hand. “Hey, Brian and I are going to go mingle and walk around and see what trouble we can get into. You two want to join us?  

Ginny and Evan looked at each other as if to say “No way!” Ginny responded, “I think we are just fine here, but thanks”

Rhonda winked at her and then tugged at Brian’s hand. The pair of them went off together, leaving Evan and Ginny to themselves.

Evan smirked at Ginny, and then they both started cracking up with muffled laughter. Evan paused and then burst out laughing again. “Where did you find her?” he asked. A tear actually began to run down his face from laughing so hard, and he quickly wiped it away.

Ginny stopped laughing, tried to compose herself, but busted out with even more laugh
Aaron LaLux Jul 2017
The Fillmore

It’s cold these days,
just ask a stranger,
saw a show tonight at The Fillmore,
Dave Chapelle with John Mayer,

Dave mentioned the show,
when I saw him at The SF MOMA,
John signed my Frieda poetry book,
that I got today from The SF MOMA,

how am I so in the In Scene,
yet at the same time such a Goner,

come on we’re,
trying to make Greatness,
so there’s no time for the Procrastinators,
and all of their lateness,

got Volume 2,
of The HH Trilogy,
coming soon,
5/5/17,

thought I’d put you on notice,

I’ve noticed,
they’ve noticed me,
more than they used to,
before The Trilogies,

came back to America,
from a few months in Australia,
now I find when I go out,
people recognize me,

not sure when it happened,
when my works became bigger than me,
all I know is it happened,
now people approach me like they know me,

“Haven’t I seen you before?”,

that’s a common one,
I guess I’m somewhere between,
Famous as Fck,
and quasi-obsolete,

I’ll probably be,
gone but not forgotten,
pardon me,
I’m lost it happens often,
caught up in the moment,
high off life and coughin’,
in the light trying to focus,
off my head and on one,

*******,
God blessed,
on with the show,
and off with his head,

and that’s cold,
cold as a guillotine’s steel,
cold as Chicago in the winter,
when it’s 20˚ below before the wind chill,

for real,

it’s cold these days,
just ask a stranger,
saw a show tonight at The Fillmore,
Dave Chapelle with John Mayer,

Dave mentioned the show,
when I saw him at The SF MOMA,
John signed my Frieda poetry book,
that I got today from The SF MOMA,

how am I so in the In Scene,
yet at the same time such a Goner,

come on we’re,
trying to make Greatness,
so there’s no time for the Procrastinators,
and all of their lateness,

got Volume 2,
of The HH Trilogy,
coming soon,
5/5/17…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
author of multiple best selling poetry books and publisher of more poems than any other living poet.

Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
--- as a boy, I explored a hermit's lair
--- the hermit was not there, he'd left nothing but a tin box
--- of charcoal pills, a panacea for curiosity, I was told.

This old bearded fellow who lived at the foot o'thumb butte,
by the burro's water hole,
other side o'the hill from Doug McVicar's Jasper find

Tidal shorelines from my child hood
swirling through the softed rocks

Boulders on the bottom, roll on, crustal waves rise and fall

it all goes back to that 13,000 year mark
when Gobekli Tepi,
was in the building,
long long before
the Hopis were on the Pollen Way, leaving land marks on

Rocks risen above the desert floor

Some thing came from space, something very cold,
a snowball so big it tugged the ocean of magma
through the crust of the earth

nuclear glass, same time. nano diamonds

The younger dryas-

melt water pulse, fire from the sky, men could see that, with their own eyes.
and then they saw the clouds of witnesses

Rituals learned, the story heart seeps from mother to child,

at first touch some say.

Specialized touches were included in the 2.0s.
Holistic wuwu Randall Carlson laughs, why lie? Evidence, see.

What did you see when you passed through hell the first time?
Nothing, you kept your eyes shut.

Are you really
Experienced? That was the question. Ask the experts,
but some of them lie.
Never trust their clocks, that's wise. Time is too temporary to make
much difference
in the long run. Time, least of all powers in eternity. Chronos,
Chaos shattered him, and some story teller on a journey
saw the event
while his tongue was being tamed, a task no man can do.

Fire and Ice from heaven to earth,
whole peoples saw it,
with the eyes in their head

Hope is the key to the heart's lock on reality

The younger Dryad's oak burned,
Drought killed all the others, bugs killed the elms.

Ah spirit to spirit, compare. The heart of the world is weeping
for the ignorant eaters of poisoned poems and stagnant stories

speed kills when it comes to cosmic notes on rocks

patience, under stand the canopy of heaven can, filter
poison from those
stagnant stories's idle words, redemption draweth nigh,

count on it. Keep counting, patience finishes what she starts.

Sacred Geometry, scale invariance, I saw the Mississippi
Carve meandering ant canyons in the dirt
while watching the rain
Nothing's secret anymore, that's a reality that may be beyond

your thought. Textbook in stone. I know geometry Mr. P,

can I come in? She who builds, who destroys, who rebuilds, suggested
my bombs have a Nobel role,
in energizing

the ark
the earth is the ark, but you knew that already, right.

Acacia bush visions from a medium
of messaging the master builder,
who, you know, made this
happen, used to heal with ashes.

Healing war, study it no more, it is
possible man, alone, can imagine.

The Godhead? What's the big idea? You a heretic, Mr. P?

Come and see, leave the clock/phone.
---

This is big momma story, little clay doll with pointy feet
sticks in the dirt, stares at the fire,

the story mamma, shhh

Stands, and lifts her hands up high, pointing
all her fingers to the skies where ashes, glowing
rise,
like we can imagine the stars once scattered by God
and his sons's servants prepping

origins of human conflict taught
Tubalcain by fire light, while Jubal
Sang the very umph umph song from
Taj Mahal' 1970 with Jerry, Fillmore West,

A message to Garcia, from on high:
the imbecility of the average man—
the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it,
That, resist. It is evil.

Angels, imaginable, you know, mere messages, nothin more,

so great a cloud of witnesses
there was a times when  all
imaginations men were imagining heartily
were evil, altogether.

Enki left and went to the moon, or that's the story grandma's
sisters told me
when I was a little boy lost and found from time to time

The serpent on the staff, where's that story from?
Who says their mammy saw that happen.

Time, Hosts of Heaven, time is one of those.

Fan tasty taste, see, the truth is good.

Freedom, responsible freedom, take as granted,
intend good and go.
Seed of the Dream,
I planted that. It contained this fact,

we reap what we sow.

Ambi-Dios, ambit-ion with no hope for something just beyond
the best that I have ever done,
that'll make a child mean as hell, on the average,
according to the data Google smuggled into China
through those super phones,
unavailable in the USA, protected by the wielders
of destruction who eat the world up,
and drink its very blood.

the bread of shame, is fed to slaves to keep them in the queue,

BTW que-eee was the word I used for ****, when I was a child.
I took that word to school.
Nobody knew what it meant. I considered that cool
and kept my secret until just now.

I feel so free.

A builder sees a building and the builder in a single glance.
None may enter here lacking geometry, that's no secret now.
The cultivated Pythagorean mind, simple as pi.

'Cain't get to Romans eight, which is here, now, I think,
with out going beyond Hebrew six.

The measure of a man that is the angel. No comma,
just a jot, then this means that,
to the mind
listening for mystery in beauty found lying around.,
glistening in the sun.
The charcoal pills I found fifty three years ago, these wandering thoughts I found dancing the trail earlier this morning.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
Yeah I am young once more morn late,
Call it the year of somebody's lord,
Call it nineteen sixty eight,
Hair to my shoulders
Makes me see better,
Parted down the middle,
The older black ladies,
On the new.york city subway,
One and all, bless me cause this Jew,
Looks just like Our Lord
In them Renaissance picture-books.

Ironically, that winter time,
I wear a white sheepskin jacket,
Purchased in the Old City of
Jerusalem, but don't tell'm that,
Cause they would have marched up to Harlem,
No telling what might've happened next...

Next summer reality intruded,
Money in pocket aid and ain't not enough,
Riding the bus on Euclid Ave.
To go downtown Cleveland, the Flats,
Drag racing and watching,
The river Cuyahoga burn,
Kinda of a bus drag, but very very, kinda cool.


Summer next,
Worked in a Republic Steel mill,
They called me the Macaroni Kid,
Cause stoopidly I told them that is
What I et,, with ketchup Heinz sauce,
Desert, a heath bar!
Cause I was saving my pennies,
This college kid they loved to hate,
Caused he bicycled to work and
Wasn't one of them.


Put me, little ole wiry me,
In the boxcars,
Loading and loafing the
Rebar, twisted and straight,
Came it, sent it all over,
Me, black as a
Pennsylvania coal miner,
A San Fran homeless man.
To this day, can't get my
Fingernails really clean.

At night, me and the boys on the porch,
Gettin ******, ****, music and a view of
Cleveland East, the sirens rushing around,
To the houses on fire, the next ******.

First freaked us out,
Coming to get us,
Then it became the best, finest ***
"That was so stony cool" light show.
The girls looked like Joan Baez,
And if they didn't,
We still took 'em to bed,
Pretending it was Janis,
If Joan was busy
In the dorm room next store.

Hey babe,
Wanna come back to my dorm room,
And drink wine, listen to Blood Sweat and Tears,
Make some of our own,
Cause my roomie gone down to Canton,
To visit his cleaning lady mom.

I loved that guy liked he was the first
Real person I'd ever met.
On my first day, without asking,
Ran his hands both all over my head,
Looking for the horns on the Jews head,
According his parish priest, we all had'em,
God's official representative on the consecrated earth of
Ohio.

In those days, I applied to schools
Farthest away from home,
That the student discounted airfare was no more than
59bucks which I could afford so I could go back to
NYC, and find out what was really
"Happening" man.

The summer next, worked in the East Village,
Summer Office Boy for a big corporation
In a part of town where you could buy
Leather fringed vests and the headshops sold
The paraphernalia to get hookah high,
And if you hookah lookah right,
That wasn't the thing they sold for cash money.

Took my steel mill blues money,
Bot me a '65 red mustang car,
That needed to be jumped to get started,
Courtesy of the Cleveland special hell called
Midwest winter.

That car, the floor was made of cardboard,
The four cylinders were bolted to the car,
So when u opened the hood, you saw mostly
The pavement of the parking lot,
Some tiny engine,
In between holding on for dear life.
Always kept extra brake fluid in the trunk,
In case the leak got bad on the Heights.

Needed to do what I needed to do,
So I wrote a resume of whom I was,
And whom I ain't, so I could get me a
Real big time job.

More on that someday,
When the resume is resumed,
Getting updated, that will be kinda funny,
Cause it will run about 500 pages long.

Right now, strange,
I am hard by hard by the Frisco bay,
The Ferry Building and the tripartite
Disposal systems of three garbage cans,
And who should appear, but
Otis and Sara B., (live from the Fillmore)
Singing to me about a dock on this bay.

Got me those 'high flying blues,'
The kind that say;

"Lord, look at me here,
I'm rooted like a tree here,
Got those sit-down, can't cry,
Oh, Lord, gonna die blues."

Missing that dock of mine,
In the picture next to my invisible head.
You want to know my face?
Maybe when back east,
I'll find that photo of that long haired college boy,
Leaning in on, so proud against that red Mustang.

Right now all I got these here old vignettes,
True stories one and all,
Making me miss my dock, my shelter,
On that old adirondack chair,
Where my **** aches, and my mind fevered
With poems of love children and a life that
Tho dim recalled, I see it all so well.
Seems the Frisco water still "energized,"
Cause here I am every morning burning
A hole in my back, writing memories,
I never tole my family while working
The wriding shift that starts at 4:00 am.
-------
See: Nat Lipstadt · Oct 5
True Stories #1
--------
River burning,
See
http://clevelandhistorical.org/items/show/63
-------
Sara Bareilles

Mar 12, 2011 -
Sara Bareilles, live at the Fillmore -

► 4:57► 4:57
www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLHB-LqvvxY
Feb 6, 2011 - Uploaded by Axel Noor
Sara Bareilles, live at the Fillmore - "(Sittin' on) the Dock of the Bay".
-----------
To many notes take the pleasure aaaway.
The stories spun from the threads of my life.

"The crazy painter from the streets,
Painted crazy patterns on your sheets,
And it's all over now baby blue
Coyote Nov 2011
I walked up to the pearly gates
and rang the golden bell
Saint Peter popped his
head out and he gave a hearty yell

He said 'what are you doing here
you're supposed to be alive?'
I said 'I blew my brains out
with a magnum 45'

'In that case I can't let you in'
Saint Peter sadly said
'You've got to take the
dark road to that other place instead'

I thanked him for his kindness
and he sent me on my way
I turned onto that evil road
and slowly walked away

The path was long and winding
and the scenery was bare
It reminded me of Kansas
when Dorothy lived there

I seemed to walk for hours
but it could have been much more
Then up ahead I saw a light
behind a wooden door

A man appeared quite suddenly
from where, I do not know
He said 'my name is Lucifer
but you can call me Joe'

He led me to the wooden door
and gave a mighty shove
The thing swung open slowly
and a light shone from above

To my surprise I did not see
the brimstone, flame or tar
Just a band of really happy folks
all drinking at a bar

Virginia Woolf and Hemingway
were sitting with Van Gogh
While Kurt Cobain was sipping wine
with Magdalene Kahlo

And Lenny Bruce was telling jokes
that made Cleopatra blush
And Hunter T. wrote frantically
As always, in a rush

Old Joe he only grinned at me
and slapped me on the back
'You didn't really think that
I would torture Kerouac?'

He called out to the bartender
and soon I had a brew
'I must admit" I said to him
before my beer was through

‘I expected something different
in the land of pain and dread'
Old Joe gave me a wicked smile
and this is what he said:

'Take a look around you son
and tell me what you see'
I saw ten thousand people
not including Joe and me

And suddenly it hit me like a
bolt out of the blue
'All these people left the world
before their time was due'

Joe finished up his bottle and
he tossed it in the sand
He said 'son every one of them
has died by their own hand

You see they lived their Hell on earth
on that you can't deny
They know what pain is really like
so I don't even try'

So friends I am still sitting here
it's been a year or so
Tomorrow night I've got a date
with Marilyn Monroe

We're going to see Hendrix
at the Fillmore down below
And the word is Janis Joplin
will be opening the show

And I don't believe that Heaven
could exact a higher praise
They can keep their harps and
trumpets...

I prefer my Purple Haze
PJ Poesy Dec 2015
She is like no other, always in her necktie.
I knew her before the necktie, before many
the body manipulations, but not all. I'd stare,
engrossingly, at elongated lobes, the wardrobe.
I, now, her technophobe, longing to digital
age do her. "It's complicated," we call it.

How I long to stand next to her at the bus stop,
like we used to do. Waiting, staring, baiting,
glaring, like we used to do, at Fillmore and Haight,
while we'd wait. Didn't care if my bus came and
left, sometimes I'd just wait for hers, to follow
her aboard. I think she liked the way I stalked her.

Me in my blah corporate attire and necktie,
her in her outlandishly wonderful. Going to work  
those days were keen broad bean, where we'd  
convene, sometimes out on the scene, or where
folks ought not be seen. And we'd just look,
for long periods. If we spoke, it was  egg white polite.

But that was then and this is now and now we
chat all naughty fun. I call her my baby, my honey-bun,
my long distance impassioned one. Virtual realities
do often please, something I like about the tease.
If ever again together, I'll be on my knees. She's
my fiancée and we plan to tie the knot.

Guess I'll be tattooing a matching necktie.
I popped the question, online. She said, "Yas!"
CMXIClement Jun 2020
The pipes are frozen,
no heat or water.
The toilet to the brim with **** again.
We'll need two buckets.  
One for the toilet,
And one to ask the neighbors for water.
She used the shovel,
I asked for water.
I always hated the looks I got.
Looks of pity,
and mixed with disdain.
I walk to the kitchen, trash littered.
I look in the fridge,
There is nothing there.
Thank god there was a free meal program.
I would rush to school,
to get there early.
To make sure I got enough to eat.
I feel lucky.
Some kids don't have it.
But I can't forget my ribs showing.
Partly depression.
Partly their drug use.
Food stamps sell for fifty cents per dollar.
I look around and
Notice things are gone.
My room missing things they pawned off for cash.
I was never home.
That did not exist.
Just a house full of people I burdened.
I get back from school,
And the house is dark.
Never know where they go when they are gone.
I go to my room.
And I sit and cry.
Wishing someone would come home to see me.
I wanted a life.
One that was normal.
One where I was not so empty inside.
And under the bed
A razor is tucked.
A lesson learned from watching my sister.
Suicides an option:
Another lesson,
As I watched her overdose on the floor.
Life was empty and...
Was intermingled..
With fear, and anxiety, and sadness.
I would peer across
to the neighbors house.
I wondered what it was like to be them.
Seeing happiness...
I had to suppress
All the heartache and tears I longed to spill.
What could I have done?
Was this punishment?
My wants were so simple but no one cared.
They did not like me.
I reminded them
Of a man whose faults they embellished.
I woke one morning.
I heard noise downstairs.
Most of our items were now all curbside.
We were evicted,
but no one told me.
One day you have a home, then you do not.
Sheriff department
The following spring
Came into our house and emptied it all.
My last memory
Was of the neighbors,
Watching our family, our life on the street.
We left most items.
We took what we could.
We found a ****** house by the train tracks.
The house was condemned,
the landlord cared little.
But...that house is a story for later.
Enduring these things,
Your dreams become simple.
You dream for things people take for granted.
My dream was simple.
It is still simple.
To love, and be loved.  To help those in pain.
When you scale the wall,
Do not hop over.
Turn back, and look down to those outstretched hands.
To those now struggling,
Keep pressing forward.
I know it seems daunting, keep pressing on.
You suffered too much
To not be happy.
Go through the swamp 'til you see the meadow.
It exists, it does.
Beyond the veil
Of pain and agony, joy is waiting.
If anyone ever needs anyone to talk to, please do not hesitate.  There are so many who have gone through so much more, but I have gone through enough to know the power of empathy.  I am here, I promise.
Wk kortas Apr 2017
We’d known him, back in the day
At dear old Millard Fillmore Elementary,
As Three-Desks Tommy, highly imaginative monicker
Deriving from his decidedly unimaginative first name
And the fact that he, indeed, had three desks,
Each of them stuffed chock-full
With uncounted numbers of pencils and erasers,
Any number of homework papers
(Usually A’s and A-pluses,
Though there were the odd B’s and B-minuses as well,
As he was a bright, in fact inordinately bright, child,
But sometimes given to sloppiness and stray pencil marks
And a predilection for not reading the directions completely)
Eerily accurate renditions of dinosaurs,
Wildly inventive stories featuring rainbow-hued dragons,
Noble and voluble talking bovines,
And knights and knaves of every size, shape, and suzerain,
Stories which resided cheek-to-jowl with some bit of uneaten sandwich
Until such time it made its existence
Abundantly clear to the custodial staff.
We’d never stopped to think much about his miniature Maginot Line;
It was what Tommy did and had always done
For as long as we could remember,
Though there were some teachers and an assistant principal or two
Who thought the whole thing was permissive bordering on coddling
(His teacher was a veteran of the wars, and well-insulated by tenure,
But she had grown weary of over-glasses glares and snide asides
When Tommy’s name came up in the staff room,
A death by a thousand cuts and all that),
And one day, while moving one of his desks
To clear space for Simon Says,
It had caught on a sticky spot,
Overturning onto a soon-to-be-fractured toe.
When he came back to school, accompanied by an ungainly cast
And an equally ungainly pair of crutches, his teacher took him aside.
Tommy, she purred, Maybe someone is trying to tell you something.
The other kids all make due with one desk,
And I’m sure you can find a way to as well, don’t you, Tommy?

So Tommy embarked on a great cleansing of his little fiefdom,
Filling several garbage cans with his collected works,
(Math papers and mastodons, bologna and Brobdingnagians)
And afterward he’d kept himself to one standard desk,
Duly filing, returning, and circular-filing his paperwork
As the occasion demanded
(Though one time Murph Dunkirk
Asked Three-Desks if he minded downsizing;
Tommy just shrugged, and said Well, it’s better than a broken foot)
And maybe in his dreams he had a thousand desks,
A thousand tops to fling open,
A thousand repositories for light and legend
Or perhaps he never gave it so much as a second thought,
No way to know now, one supposes,
Though if anything out of the ordinary had come his way,
We would’ve probably heard.
Trinity O Feb 2012
Did you know they pay people to study here,
to stay here after studying? It’s the human
capital flight of the tech-smart who type faster
than an entire room of secretaries in cardigans and pearls.
But the bigger question is, if all the brains
are draining out like spiders in a shower, then who is still here
weighting the state lines down with stones
if not zombies? Brainless bodies hungry, crabby, and without
an appropriate sense of boundaries.
          They lure you in
with home values and cheap houses—the tired ones
who are getting old for their age, who don’t run as fast or as often
and want an easy life with chubby children and a yard,
or those who are sick of being felt up ‘accidentally’ on the 22 Fillmore bus.
This is how they get you.
          And you stay because it grows on you
the way everything grows in Indiana, effortlessly and way too fast.
Plus, let’s face it, you’ve gotten lazy and don’t
make enough money to one day move away
with the kids and the yard and all.
So the zombies win.
          But being Indiana,
the neo-conservatists would swoop in to save the day
against the zombies who hate us for our freedoms
and the liberation of our women. And sometime after
the "Mission Accomplished" banner is broadcast
to all 50 states from a ship safely tucked away
on Lake Michigan,
          the zombies will regroup again
and pick us off like old ladies at the bus station.
Then with even more determination and hatred of the living
they’ll get fat on intellect until they’ve eaten the last,
and the un-dead of Indiana will die of starvation.
wordvango Jun 2017
I know you have loved to where it hurt like the guitar strings
pulled twisted plucked cried out to an audience at the Fillmore
or had that backbeat inside the bass the drums
saying **** me
cried out like the lead singer
have you ever loved more
inside your heart torn outside becoming in
as the melody sang about
some love in two tones
you took it to heart
deep
understood again
how magically the words were
somehow
written
just for you
Allen Wilbert Oct 2013
Presidents

Washington, Adams and Jefferson,
had *** with slaves just for fun.
Madison, Monroe and Adams,
I'm sure had secret madams.
Jackson, Van Buren and Harrison,
not sure how they ever won.
Tyler, Polk and Taylor,
before elected lived in a trailer.
Fillmore, Pierce and Buchanan,
should have been shot from a cannon.
Lincoln, Johnson and Grant,
each once had a cotton plant.
Hayes, Garfield and Arthur,
sinking fast with no life preserver.
Cleveland, Harrison and again Cleveland,
both of them killed at least one Indian.
McKinley, Roosevelt and Taft,
all too fat to float on a raft.
Wilson, Harding and Coolidge,
should have jumped from a bridge.
Hoover, Roosevelt and Truman,
wondering if they were even human.
Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson,
neither of them can still run.
Nixon, Ford and Carter,
not sure which one was smarter.
Reagan, Bush and Clinton,
shot, stupid and a Monica.
Bush and now Obama,
one was dumb,
and the other looks like a black llama.
A
Alex;
the boyfriend you had while I loved you.
Acid;
can I lend you 20 for some acid?
no. not even as you glint your eyes at me, no.
Anger;
with your family,
mentally ill sister and young parents
who don’t know how to deal with your
flickered drug habit
Attention;
what you don’t get enough of
and what you get too much of
B
*******;
yours are defining
cutting shirts into movements
your least favorite feature,
you always wished for my small peaks
but you have to learn the beauty of your own.
Blunt wraps;
you used an elementary school photo
of a black girl,
her cornrows burnt away that morning
C
Czajka;
chai-kah,
your name has always been a knife to me,
for the first month I knew you
I stumbled on the Polish of your mother’s maiden name.
Sha-jaka?
Calls;
I got a call every morning and every night from you,
so when I found out you didn’t love  me
those hours we spent
backing out the night sky
fell seamlessly away into phone bills.
Comfort;
your shaggy carpet
and ***** underwear
and peanut butter sandwiches
we were crescents together
I told you stories about the time I **** my pants
and you told me stories about how you peed behind the couch
and we were safe
under the lemon light of your room
Coy;
you are that to me,
not a tease but the sound of a wine glass in a sharp nailed hand
coy and subtle and pursed lips
E
Ex;
we are ex-never lovers
and ex-sweaty hand holders

F
Fragment;
you left me with your shards of light,
heavy sweaters and lip stains,
poetry books and fliers,
condoms and socks,
a bike lock and nail polish
H
Hair;
you ripped the hair out of my brushes
to keep in jars in your room,
Hair;
sharp and golden
tinted green at the bottoms,
flat on your head.
L
Lombard;
you live across town
and I spent days with you
listening to your iPod
stripped and full of Chinese food,
legs curled and stuck together
Love;
the only thing between us
was a blue light from a cell phone
N
Naked;
we have seen each other
husk and chicken skin,
only socks and earrings
or when I showered in front of you
***** hair rustling
you asked me why I fell in love with you.
P
Poem;
you read my first love poem to you and you cried at your desk
and I blushed and knew that you never loved me
I performed it that same day
and waited for you to hear me
but you didn’t come
and I don’t think you wanted to anyway.
S
Still;
sometimes i think
i still love you,
that dripping seed i felt for you
is hidden behind calling you crazy.
calling you ***** haired,
calling you nicotine-addicted
Smell;
it smells like Abby,
my cheeks rush and you must’ve been there
because it is just you in this room
Shoplifting;
you do it every time I am with you,
and I am guilty for the both of us
when I tried it for the first time
my fingers shook
and you bit your fingernail and laughed
and now I have a lipstain I think looks awful on me
and I am still guilty for the both of us
T
Tattoo;
you have an eye on your hip bone,
a quick decision that you will probably regret in a year
but I love it for now
V
*****;
the first time i got drunk was with you,
***** lemonade,
basement slurs
and it was disgusting
and I loved you
*****;
you threw up in the Salernos parking lot
on the corner of Fillmore and Home,
and in the back of Cal’s car
Virginity;
you lost your virginity to David
and you said it was just *** to both of you
and I didn’t believe you
and you fell in love with him
and cried when it really was just ***
carm Aug 2015
SF. or known as the bay.

it's 3:11 am and i am hopelessly reminiscing over the cold mist
constantly over the Golden Gate.
maybe they're just like the rest of us,
trying to cross the bridge
off to somewhere else.
as all of those who had jumped off.
off to somewhere better.

i miss the secret breakfast or dulche de leche
exclusively available at humphry slocombe
nestled between the hoods of the spanish speaking
¿hablas espanol?
roll the tips of your tongue like you mean it
as you feel the bourbon melt off the tip of it
just like any human body would.
and i had always secretly hoped
that the sandy blond hair and green eyed
regular over the counter
would scoop me up just like that ice cream out of the tub.

i miss lee and steiner
who basically are my ride or die's
over the last summer.
who swear to love me
over my insecurities
with theirs.
those 2 am giggling and yelling over spiders or a boy's text.
12 pm groggily teeth and hair brushing or blush and mascara applying.

the struggle remains between shorts tights or jeans,
a thin cardigan will suffice
but you know you're going to regret it
as you shiver so hard
on the side of the open muni station at 6pm when the sky darkens at the blink of an eye
with that hobo next to you bracing it everyday business
tomorrow.
I AM NOT RISKING IT TOMORROW AND HELL YEAH I'M BRINGING MY PARKA.
come tomorrow
vanity always wins in the end
as you decide nobody will see your #ootd underneath those layers.

pride parade had always been a big thing.
as you squeeze through the crowd to the end of the tenderloin
you decide that sometimes,
penises are just not your thing out in the open.
but hey those tutu's and rainbows
and ******* plastered with heart shaped stickers were at least worthwhile.
you do support LGBT after all.
more even when there's a scenery.

not to mention
that occupied corner
always ready to slip a slice of *** over when you need it
fearless of the SFPD.
eyeing the whole trade happening.
viva la vida.
is that stash lasting long enough for you to write the next pop hits?

sipping on the peets you got over at mission
you always wondered why is starbucks always so crowded with writers and chatters alike.
but constantly in the rush
you wished you had the time for that urban outfitters at union square
if and only if,
you'll just probably end up at the ones over at fillmore.
should you give in and just stumble into the mess of the forever 21 instead.
ah decisions.

i will never forget that night where we got back from sf and got stranded in the towns of santa rosa.
waiting for a ride.
journey to remember,
always.
do remind me if any of the locations are messed up. memories do fail me.
Aaron Ownbey Dec 2016
When i was little i remember things that no longer are,
Like seeing the sky full of endless stars.
I remember watching the giant birds flying free,
Their home no more was the river of Sespe.
My mind goes back to when the waters ran wild,
Pushing and pulling me when i was a child.
I saw clouds puffier than a giants cottontail,
The fillmore train riding its rail.
I rode without seat belts and ate all on my plate,
Life when i was a little was nothing but great.
My toys made of matel and i played in the dirt,
I made mud pies and stained my shirt.
Telivision was black and white
and there was no remote control,
Back when the firplace had to be cleaned of its coal.
There was no internet, cellphones or xbox,
We had a desease called chickenpox.
I remember fruit trees for miles i would see,
Everything when i was little is worth remembering.
Now that im all grown nothing  is  the same,
Its scares me to think what the world has became.
Surrounded by lights now the stars cant shine through,
And the California Condor is gone now too.
The rivers once full are now dessert dry,
The clouds are man made and i ask why?
The train still on track it drives the same rail,
Seat belts a must or you go to jail.
Electronics are what kids play these days,
In fact  kids are impossible to raise.
I remember when i was little and wishing to be just that,
No other place in life i would rather be at.
Janna Feb 2018
The literal worst.

Some might say Nixon- the criminal in charge

Martin for the tear he let the native’s tread

Hoover for the shanty towns that rose

Fillmore who let the escaped and finally free be returned to captivity.

John Taylor the whig who wasn't a whig but manifested his Ideas in us going west.

Warren G Harding and the Affairs

James Buchanan who started the war.

But the worst were the ones who never got to be.
The literal worst because I got to see a world that will remain unknown to me.
And they are:
Jessie  
Charlene
Victoria and Shirley
Belva
Elaine
Carol ‘n Patsy and
Cynthia McKinney
And who can forget Joan Jett Blakk the black Drag Queen


Because Despite what the winners want you to think WE do not look like James Buchanan!

Warren Harding!

John Taylor and all the other men who have persisted to reign.

And still, we sit here and watch as all other make strides in the field we claim to have created.
Brazil
Germany
India
Israel
Iceland
Ireland
Liberia
Norway
Pakistan
The Philippines
Sri Lanka
South Korea
And the UK

I hope I live long enough to see America rise to the silent challenge of its peers.

To see a woman at the podium
To see a woman at the desk.

To see

The black woman
The trans woman
The bisexual woman
The old woman
The unmarried, unmothered woman
The minority woman
The asexual woman
The not so average American woman woman.
The bleeding woman.
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Rock And Roll Memoir

It was too **** loud
I never liked Bobo
our first drummer
            or
was he the third?
The riffs?  Stolen.
Lyrics written
by a callow youth
still torment me
to this day like a
                                            s
                                     w
                                                a
                               r
                                                     m
                                      of
                          b
                                        e
                                                    e
                                    s
My obituary
a bit of boilerplate
written by interns
at Rolling Stone
lays waiting
patiently
for the call.

I don’t remember
      in any particular
   order
the origin
                                             of the band name
                     the outcomes  
                                                   of
                                                             the lawsuits

                                            what happened
           in Houston


penning “Love Carburetor”
                                                                             on the bare
***

                                   of a groupie named Skyyy

                      

           writing
                    a song cycle

                                           about the Laps                      
riding  
  
                                 in ambulances
           limos


helicopters

or

                                                                                     punching
Bill Graham

on the sidewalk
                                                               in front of

                                                  the Fillmore                                
                                                                                                    


                                                                                                    East.

If you say
we played Farm Aid
twice, well
I guess you would know.

I can’t ****
standing up
or hear a word
you’re saying
and my doctor says
we must get
a handle on my liver
before we think
about replacing my
knees
hips
corneas
heart and lungs.

But I’m booked
to a ten night stand
at the Beacon
with the New York Philharmonic
performing our first album
in its entirety
with our original bassist Ian
somebody or other
plus interviews
on Fresh Air and Morning Joe
to promote a concert
film by Jim Jarmusch.
Sarah Flynn Oct 2020
I guess you could say
that I feel broken.

it's this feeling where
I'm in the room,
and you can see me,
but I'm not here.

it's kind of like
I left pieces of me
everywhere I went.

I dropped my
idea of safety
while I was running.

it landed on the corner
of Morris Park
and Fillmore street,
and was tainted by
my friend's blood
pouring out onto
the concrete.

I didn't want it back.

my innocence was
left shivering
on the pool table
in my first
boyfriend's basement.

I remember thinking
that this was the
right place to
leave it, and
then crying once
I realized it was gone.

my faith in humanity
was lost too.

it fell somewhere
between the cracks
in all of this violence,
and was swallowed
by the fog of dust
and debris.

I don't know
where the rest of me
disappeared to.

maybe I gave too much
of myself away
when I tried to help
everyone else,
and ended up
forgetting to
help myself.

or maybe
I left those pieces
with the people
I loved, in the
places where
we used to go.

maybe, if you looked,
you could still find me

in my laughter
echoing under
the streetlights

or hidden deep
in the shadows
where we used
to park our cars

or floating towards
the sky in a cloud
of marijuana smoke

or stuck to the lips
of someone I loved once.

but maybe,
there's a chance
that all of me is still here,
even though I feel
so broken.

maybe I'm not incomplete.

maybe I am still enough,
even with all of these
missing pieces.

and maybe, one day,
I will find myself again.
Qualyxian Quest Feb 2023
So in 6th grade
I had to report on Millard Fillmore
The 13th President
Not exactly now a household name

He was a Know Nothing
Was Socrates the same?
But American Know Nothings are racists
Unlike Socrates, they deserve the blame

Not Fillmore, but Baltimore,
Is where I stake my claim
I have an Inner Harbor
She is my Secret Flame

Watched the Ravens play
Saw an Orioles perfect game
Our friendship had to end
Such a crying shame

               But I still aim.
Ryan O'Leary Aug 2019
Between two butcher shops
  vegan cafe sandwiched
      Fillmore Street me @
Qualyxian Quest Jan 2023
She's sort of a wish or a Wonder
Of what might have been
She reminds me of my mother
Caring. Feminine.

America is quite far gone.
The precipice in sight
Strife through the days
Qanon Trumpfuck Nights

Millard Fillmore
The 13th president
Can't help us now
Alien residence?

My high school had a race riot
Maybe yours did too
First they come for the terrorists
Then they come for you

            Whatcha gonna do?
Qualyxian Quest Jan 2023
I've tried to break free of America
Have I succeeded at all?
Misty River Eden
Royal Albert Hall

In Dublin the Book of Kells
Charming Malahide
Come out ye black and tans!
George W. Lied

Taipei 101
Street vendor wonton soup
The Greek Freak on the break
Throw him the Alley Oop!

My Brother Sam is Dead
Goodbye Millard Fillmore
Where Angels Fear to Tread
She cried more more more!

      Inner Harbor, Baltimore
Qualyxian Quest Jul 2023
History more concrete than philosophy
And far less romantic
War after meaningless war
Terror in the Night

I mention Millard Fillmore
He tells me of Japan
I'm gonna go down, go down
But not without a fight

Not a fan of Thomas Jefferson
The Uber American Hypocrite
Graduate of George Mason
Still see 2 green lights

The Zealot and the Emancipator
Gonna have lunch in Harper's Ferry
I John Brown
Still the puzzling plight

             Brown not White
Qualyxian Quest Jun 2023
I would tell her
Hers is a fragile beauty to me
Fragile like stained glass
Like friendship. Like folk.

I disappoint myself
But I struggle on
Gamla Stan!
Millard Fillmore, James Polk

But not me
3733
xie xie ni
Diet Coke

She's unique
Ms. Susan Meek
Hide and Seek

                     Old Oak

                        Woke.
my brother Sam is dead
6th grade book
Millard Fillmore report to do
So I take a look

Catholic religious background
But I'm public school
Cordelia is truly noble
King Lear is a Fool

— The End —