every morning i drive by ben & jerry’s
haight-ashbury, hippie history
he sleeps on sticky stairs
remnants of mint chocolate chip, the
sugary smell underneath sleeping bag
comforts his drunk, drugged out body
pressed against concrete like
ice cream against waffle cone, but
this isn’t dessert, i think
of the hundreds of tourists’ feet
smiling, licking
walking on his bed
Tag: Poem
12/13: Poetry Reading in Burlingame, California
September 22, 2023 or Writing Exercise #2
scroll, read, scroll, poem of the day, suzi garcia, her sentences are not quite for me, so i search for words, tulle, doyenne, melliflous, nothing connects, just esoteric ink on a screen, survey surroundings, dark parking garage, in the distance, corepower yoga next to scandinavian designs, sweat and furniture, both closed, friday night in san mateo, sitting because it hurts to walk, same old song, reminds me of motown music, the 60’s used to be yesterday, like dancing to the Four Tops at family parties, now motown is dirt, as in, old as, i’m less young too, new phase of life for sure, i’m the old guy waiting in the car, writing on my iphone, trying to tell the truth.
Write What You Know
what if what you know is just a basement rug, ballgame on upstairs, crickets outside, september night, cool air, touch of smoke wafting in, forest fires north of here, is this enough? reading a random poem by nuala ní dhomhnaill, sounds irish to me, real irish, as in gaelic, depending on whether you’re english, not me, i’m american, as in, related to merica, tennessee talk, knew it, southern, sometimes reel southern, like fishing with words, deep accent, but here in california everything is different, mostly people ask me that, isn’t san francisco different? yes, and no, y’all still just people, politics a side, and who wants politics for a main course? not me
The House of Love
This is a second poem by my Grandmother Ethel from her scrapbook.
Daniel W. Polk 