Saadi is a former student, now friend. He owns San Francisco’s Hometown Creamery (which is awesome!): https://www.sfhometowncreamery.com/
Month: April 2025
With Saadi
If You Get Caught Between Nashville & San Francisco
ditch the politics, keep the people, americans both, but yes, they are different, things people say in tennessee but not in san francisco: i know some good fishing spots, have a blessed day, by the grace of god, bless your heart, thank you for your service, y’all gonna drive to the beach?, i remember that leann rimes’ album.., y’all gonna get some hot chicken?, y’all been reading your scripture?, you applying to UTK?, beat bama, she went back to the lord, but in tennessee no one ever says: i’ll order a waymo, he works for apple, google, genentech, fill in the tech blank, i’m buying a rivian, you surf?, my vinyasa class was SO hard, i went on a meditation retreat, i’m going to talk to my therapist about it, i’m going to LA for the weekend, do you want to get burritos?, its snowing in tahoe, the fog is in, people ask me to compare and contrast, and here’s what i might say: i like tennessee because people are more down to earth, even if someone is wealthy, it isn’t cool to act like you are above others, but in san francisco that isn’t always the case: i like san francisco because there aren’t any chiggers and straight-line wind storms looking to wreak havoc on your body/home, so to bring it back to christopher cross, i live in san francisco, but both places are home.
Gazing at Longevity Peaches
this is that poem, the one where the writer visits a museum, stares for a long time, tries to transcribe, translate, imbibe one artform into another, so here i am, san francisco, qi baishi, his peaches, better than super mario bros., ty cobb, safeway’s produce section, sickly sweet del monte in a can, better than ice cream, shout out sarah mclachlan, maybe not better than ice cream, but i’ve never seen frozen dessert so delectably hung on a wall, and to think he lived (1864) & died (1957) fully immersed in art, the way i want to swim in letters, inspiring, the colors, the colors, spheres, juice-filled suns on earth, made by human hands, human hands.
San Francisco Railroad
Of Mice and Grease
tell me more, tell me more, the musical didn’t get very far, first act, april, 1988, and i’m a freshman in high school, managed to avoid the senior crazies all year, the guys who threw all the parties, got into all the fights, the ones teachers feared, they are close to graduating, but not without one final senior prank, and this is where i come in, me and hundreds of other students watching grease, i don’t see the eight guys in the darkened auditorium, each with a sack of 50 mice, all 400 bought over several days before, details that come out later, the crazies release the rodents while danny zuko is crooning summer fling, don’t mean a thing, then that high pitch animal squeak screeches out from under every seat, an unnatural infestation, the screams begin, kids jump on seats, some run for the aisle, pure chaos, like the barf-o-rama scene in stand by me, i walk quickly to the exit, when i see slow-footed chris hagan, all 260-pounds of him laboring to get out too, i didn’t see the body of the crushed mouse under his reebok high tops, just splashes of scarlet blood splattered on his sneaker, for a second i lock eyes with chris, he’s visibly shaking, his jowls quivering, probably had never killed anything before in his life, a minute later i’m out of the theater, suddenly sad on a warm spring day.
Mexican Resort During Christmas
in the pool, they are tan with a cocktail in hand, the buzzed on winter vacation drink corona, tecate, modelo, cold cans and bottles reflect sun-drenched bodies, dipping tortilla chips in guacamole, pacific ocean december sunsets and gracias por la cerveza, bartenders wear red & white hats, but i can’t imagine santa visiting here, where footballs splash near plastic margarita glasses, and waiters wear fake smiles while working christmas eve, i try to find the deeper meaning in this alcohol and chlorine, relaxation, i suppose, but all i see is vapid sunshine, starlight without a soul.
After The Flip Phone
they radiate warmth, glow with a touch
they wake us up, send notifications, control calendars
they provide direction, share terrible text news
they are anxiety when lost
they are nothing, contain everything
they are addiction, mandatory for work
they are constantly held, gripped, stared at
they are photos, & more photos, preserving memory
they are low wage labor, somewhere in china
they are steve jobs, apple salaries supported
they are planned obsolescence, always updating
they are our servants, who we serve
Before & Now
i could try to put
all the words back together
months and years of poems
those fragments, pieces of bone
structure of love, my body
of work, endless expression
of our boundless truth
when we were both
younger, before
but now
only this
Gen X Listens To Chappell Roan
good luck, babe, progeny of tori amos & kate bush, the 1980’s, their “tell” -stratified debris of an earlier generation of people- now buried under chappell roan’s civilization, and so it goes, guthrie gave way to dylan, madonna to gaga, dicaprio to chalamet, not to say tori and kate are gone, but they are, & one day roan will disappear too, obvious, the young push out the old, why does this matter? because we all hold too tightly, grip less firmly, because, in the words of sufjan stevens, all things go
Daniel W. Polk 