Xmas 1967

The Oakland Gypsy Jokers hung out here. 
Now and then. I had a conversation
Once with one who praised my lady, my hat, 
Tried on the one I was least jealous of
And told me of his friend who collected 
Headgear, offered the other a ride she 
Refused. A few tense moments till the group 
Left with a great standing on starters, gear 
Shifting. With a standing invitation
To return. Without my hat or girl. That
Was all till Christmas Eve when lack of love
Drove me to work the bar. The neglected
Few who bellied up that night had for free:
Day-old bread, mulled wine and a ham-bean soup 
That a Joker made and brought in to feed
Whoever. Together we ran the bar
Till Christmas, locked up, wished ourselves godspeed, 
He on his Harley hog, me in my car.

California Gypsy Jokers, late 1960s

Tai Chi

Sometimes things progress slowly in a bar,
Sometimes they don’t. John, in his forties, sipped
Red wine and checked and checked again. A war
Fought and won on squares. The chess clock’s hands slipped. 
The bell rang. Pawn to knight. The king alone.
Checkmate. The loser scowled, flushed, he had too
Much alcohol, too much testosterone.
He lurched, erupted from his chair. I knew
This was trouble. He insulted John who
Shrugged, spoke softly. That wouldn’t jolt this jerk
From his ragged rage. I knew what to do,
Moved quickly down the bar and out. My work
Was mediation. But John rose. His arm
Rose too, slowly. He pivoted. His fist
Connected with a sternum. False alarm.
All I had to do was grapple a wrist,
Shove yoyo through the door. “It wasn’t me,”
Said John who sat back down. “It was tai chi.”

Blind Lemon handbill from Dec 27, 1966

Albatross

Those who tend bar recognize each other.
Cork unscrewers, keg tappers, a brother-
Hood of booze. Even in Berkeley. Who knew? 
I drank free on San Pablo Avenue.
Mario Savio worked at the Wolf. I
Ran the taps at The Blind Lemon. A guy
No one knew was at The Albatross. There
One night when I didn’t know when from where, 
We got to talking. “I’m Icelandic too.
I’ll lock up. We’ll find better things to do.
I’ve got a house in the hills. Follow me.”
My Volkswagen van chased his MG
Up where stars shone on the fancy places
Filled with furniture and fun and faces.
He took a woman to a room. I stayed
And smoked and drank while he got laid.
He reminded me of a prince I read
Of in a Haldor Laxness book. Instead
Of passion he had whims. I can’t befriend
Those who don’t care about the bar they tend.
I said good night. Probably that’s why I’m
Still last one at the bar at closing time.

Photos from the Albatross, 1967. After 60 years in business, it closed in 2020.

The Assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

The night Dr. King was shot I was bored,
Leaning on the bar, listening. The way I
Often listened, the way bartenders try
To look as if what you’re saying explored
New ground, opened a human life and heart
In ways different from all the vanished lives
Spread on the varnished wood, the husbands, wives, 
Lovers, dogs, come together, torn apart.
Then the front door banged open. Three blacks, young, 
Nervous, jumpy. I thought, “Stickup?” But no.
“Why are you open?” “Why not?” I could grow
Used to confrontation the way your tongue
Gets used to crooked teeth. “Dr. King’s dead. 
Close this bar.” I didn’t question the news. 
After John Kennedy who wouldn’t choose
Any dark story. I doused the lights, said 
Goodnight, went home to bed. And then I lay 
There a long time awake. Is this the way
Things are now? Down the block an Asian store 
Was burned because he wouldn’t lock his door.

Dr. King giving a speech at UC Berkeley, May 17, 1967. He was killed on April 4, 1968.

The Muse Descends

“I am not cookies or pastry pie,” he
Said. His friends applauded as he went on
With the poem. I splashed colors on the walls, 
Drew draft Bud and Anchor, uncapped bottled 
Würzberger. I kept music going when
The poets took a beerbreak: Beatles, Cream, 
Jimmy Hendrix, Crosby Stills and Nash, Bach, 
All those Germans, Palestrina. I poured
Mulled wine, hot cider, argued with those who 
Said they hadn’t had enough. Nobody
Worried about who belonged there. Not me.
If you could speak Rilke, Snyder or Juan 
Castaneda, if your thing was Franz Hals,
Warhol, who really cared! So I mottled
The dirty backbar with stained glass light. Then 
Cranked down the music, sat down in a stream 
Of words, worlds stuffed full of sounds, poet cock 
Eager for ejaculation, ignored.
“I am not cookies or pastry pie, you
Cannot eat me.” Nobody said bloody
Hell. No one ever gets their fill of
Some things: pastry, drinking, poems, love.

Blind Lemon handbill, Jan 10, 1967

Auteur

Herb de Grasse. Even in Berkeley a weird 
Name. A math major who made his movies 
Memorize his visions. Black curly beard,
Sure hand at the chessboard. And the groovies 
At the Blind Lemon were his actors. I
Was a recruit too. First a ragged priest
Who sang as he scourged. Then a poet guy 
Who suffered slings of love and art. A feast
Of pizza was my pay. But more than that
A way to share an age that will not come
Again. Students shouted down a war, sat
Down in protest, marched to a different drum. 
Mario Savio was a fellow barkeep. In
The City, Diggers had free food. We thought
Once the old folks died the wars would end. Sin 
Would cease. Now we are old and they did not. 
Herb cranks his camera. You can see him grin, 
Filming the end and editing it in.

On Blake Street

Here’s my small house in Berkeley where Herb kicked
The potted plant from the paintless porch, mad
Because the morning he and I had picked
For filming hadn’t worked. (I was gone, had
Other fish to fry.) He still made The Death
Of Alex Litzky which I watched today
In San Jose and had to hold my breath
When I saw myself, 27, play
A poet drunk on drama and on dreams,
Snagged in a snare of love and loss and lust,
Who struggled to the surface of strange streams
And searched for undercurrents he could trust.
I played myself, a lost and lonely man,
Tuned to the times. Bartending, wallowing
In my books, intent on a secret plan
To digest all that I’d been swallowing.

I’ll never be that young again but still
See in that film somehow someday I will.

The existential poet (me), from The Death of Alex Listky, 1968

When I Close the Bar

When I close the bar, I use a push broom
To move dirt here and there around the room.
I pull the plugs to everything, clean sinks
And toilets, wash glasses, dump the last drinks,
Turn off the barlights, lock both doors. It’s two
In the AM. Usually what I do
Is walk home down silent streets, shower, read
A book till sleep comes. Sometimes though I need 
Some company. There’s a diner that stays
Open all night on University. Days,
It’s a normal greasy spoon. Nights, you find
All sorts of weirdos hanging out: the blind
Who lead the blind, pushers, pimps, and the guy 
Who bartends at the Blind Lemon, me. I
Order fried eggs, corned-beef hash, orange juice, toast, 
Doze over bitter coffee, see a ghost,
Pay my bill, tip 15%, drive back
Home. There I stare into the bedroom’s black
Blank wall. I separate the way things are
From how they should be when I close the bar.