Antipasto à gogo



Originally published in The Evergreen Review Issue 119 in August, 2009.

“I was never really a member of the Beat Generation.”

—L. Ferlinghetti, 1990

I was a vegetable,

and I was red,

and I was diced,

and I was in some famous salads.

I was loosely affiliated

with a lot of fruit,

I was canned, I was sweet,

but I was never really a beet.

It’s true I was an anchovy

once for Halloween.

Rootabaga Stories?

That doesn’t prove a thing.

This is the end of the line, this is me,

the last block puts the bitch

back into North Beach.

Lord Buckley doesn’t live here anymore.

Which doesn’t stop the shoulders of a saint,

the author of a traveling scroll,

from threading through the downfield

all alone now in a dream.

The young kids come around

armed with ancient envelopes,

waking up old ghosts on Russian Hill.

Question lists get baptized with good beer.

They sleep it off in live-work spaces

South of Market, where

misconceptions give breech birth

to cubicles.

The empirical evidence is in:

The sky is made of pesto

and the Aurora Borealis. . .

never mind.

You call this a revival?

I call it borscht.