"Psychotics all over the fucking lawn," he said. But all I saw were cicadas.

Interesting things can happen on a road-trip! Yes, I, Marissa Ranello, took a 120 hour round-trip on a Greyhound. Yes, I dragged a child along with me. Inhumane? Perhaps. Interesting? Fuck yes. And let me tell you--sitting in the front seat of a Greyhound bus, with a driver who had his eyes closed(?), in the pouring rain, going around sharp bends, at 3 AM, in Ontario, with suicidal moose darting out in front of the bus, WAS INSANE.

That said, I want to thank Pat for communicating with my husband and the rest of ULA folk, and maintaining the blog, while I fucked off and brought my step-daughter on her first trip to the states. Awesome. But I'm back--and my freshly planted tomato plants will make me think of Pat's Grandma Rosie's Sunday pasta sauce.

It's Friday? DO you know what that means party people? Yes, oh yes, it's blog time. Ooooh, I said it. Say it with me now, BLOG TIME. Makes ya' feel all warm and tingly, doesn't it?

This week we've got great material!

I'm pleased to present poems from A.D. Winans. I do not use this term lightly: this man is a living legend. Indeed, Winans had friendships with Bukowski, Bob Kaufman, & Jack Micheline. However, this is NOT why I refer to him as a legend. Much like Lyn Lifshin, (who I respect and admire) Winans refuses to put himself on a pedestal. He continues to promote and contribute to the small presses. The lit world needs more Lifshin's and Winans'.


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A.D. WINANS


TENDERLOIN POEM

I have sat one too many evenings
watching old men and women
eat their last mealone eye on the dessert
the other on the obituary column



A THING OF BEAUTY

It was at the Hotel Entella
before it burned to the ground
her pubes dark as ash set apart
from sheet white thighs
her scent an orchid pinned
to a virgin's chest



PAMANA MEMORIES

the young Panamanian girl
sitting alongside her sister
in a slip and bare feet
reading a comic book
and chewing on bubble gum
at a brothel called The
Teenage Club
waiting on the first airmen
to arrive

six girls lined-up like bowling pins
rooted to their chairs
with zombie like stares
doing a woman's thing inside
a child's body



I REMEMBER STILL

I remember still how wonderful it was
running to join each other's dreams
sharing our separate worlds of hope
in rooms where angels sang

I remember your doll house dreams
your lips colored with flowers
my hands tracing the valley of heaven
and finding them in your silent curves

it was a work of abstract art
a garden of unsurpossed beauty
where I became God himself
and having you
I did not need a son


A BIT OF ZEN

Monks in
meditation
Have no need for
explanation.

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A.D. Winans is a Native San Francisco poet and writer. Member of PEN. Former editor/publisher of Second Coming. Author of over 45 books and chapbooks of poetry and prose. Work has appeared world-wide and been translated into nine languauges.