A..D. WINAN'S AT ANGEL CITY

From the Beat
of his San Francisco
meeting Bukowski
in the mean streets of L.A.
A.D. Winans
widely read
from the over heated lockers
at the gymnast exits
passing by
a music rocking matinee
there exists instead
a transformed
Wolfman Jack,the man
suddenly appears
from behind our back
to perform from the dead
with new dialects
of dialectal language
instead becomes
a lyrical seer
from an anguish of 24/7
of playing musical recordings
in the most aged selfish thread
after a brief trip to heaven
from a fetid vacant smoke
into Hades
a weird itinerant poet
like Artaud,
who also died
was denied as a spoken genius
now mystified by the ladies
whom they deify
suddenly appears ahead
on route 66
all the highways to Styx
we see the coming beast
still burns us up
with a once wise guy
out of the closet
holding out his cup
as a car jolts on arrival
with his hope of survival
from vaults and cesspools
in basalt volcanic rock
or in titanic structures of stone
from pillars of salt
needing soap and waters
cold from overflowing dope
undersold along the West Coast
by Pacific ocean reeds
motioning us from high pillars
of commotion
to fulfill all his needs
in new births, and latter deaths,
scattering his five star deeds
by breaths of brushing poses
of his artistic deeds
knowing a future expectancy
is in the cards and on his beeds
with a missing joker
death warrants,
exigencies,
academic rants,
chants,
variations,
rations,
variables
in anti body emergencies,
from C. I.A., K.G.B.
or the domestic Stasi
and German spy agencies
all the way from the Nazis
prearranged in passages
on passports for  passengers
on ships of fools
and their hangers on
lead by the ghost
of Charles Manson
after murderous bacchanals
still boasting
on the West Coast,
here are mustached cowboys
laughing out in rose fatigues,
sheriffs out
for the work-out wise
these guys in bending iron
in non smoker gyms
of hungry brutes
raised from dust bowls
to take out their frustration
with a vast leap
into the deep underground
of in fighting
sleeping out
over a qualitative leap
who circle around
on motorcycles
with new wheels
with sight reading grenades
that their lives conceal
escaping their frozen solitude
as echoes stir
from a blind ballerina
named Katie Cinderella
whirling in a dance macabre
of a future Salome
whose fella Sam
an enfant terrible
is handwriting
with graffiti by L.A. walls
with Divine dancing
on the boardwalks
preening and prancing
with David Lockary
in a snit riddled
with his own mockery
near a jelly fish tank
of thanking go- go exiles
in similes and smiles
of his child's resemblances
over his unbalanced sheets
when echoes shot out
of an instant camera
from those chimeras wanting
to get out of
a photographic memory
in noon day mirrors
and out-of doors
by pallid statues
as artificial flowers grow
in San Francisco, California
with a rococo sense of light
as an unsettled guest lies
on Long Beach
playing his Basque guitar
under the stars
on rocks of ice sculptured
by a box of open shoes
and bread he sells
after the harvest
outside the farmer's market
and rests along the earth
giving out
free bell-shaped aloes
as a succulent tubular plant
at the stem and rosette
and stamping invalid passports
on sunny hot desert flats
by shadowing shadows
of queers who come out
without regret
of a high time
after a life of crime in knots
with hand jobs
in mirrors of strife
and street wars ramped up
on campy cliff notes out
in lipsticks mirrored rouge
at the Moulin lounge
outside Sing-Sing's metropolis
uncovered over our borders
with hunger on the streets
advertising for a bride
to ride and quoting
in huge capital letters,
"DRY RUNS
ON THE GALLOWS"
let's decide to meet
sometime on the dance floor
and bring on a poet
for  a partner
in the orchestra pit
before the finale's apocalypse.









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