A.D. Winans was born, raised and lives in San Francisco. He graduated from S.F. State College (now a university). A.D. returned home from Panama in 1958 and discovered the North Beach beat scene, and later was a fringe participant in the Hipper Era. He was privileged to know Jack Micheline, Bob Kaufman, Charles Bukowski, and many other Beat and post-beat poets and writers. He edited and published Second Coming Magazine and Press for l7 years. Some of the many highlights of his life include having a poem of his set to music and performed at Tully Hall (NYC), meeting and having a drink with John Lee Hooker, shooting pool with Janis Joplin, and meeting the late Robert Kennedy, one of his early heroes. Author of over 40 books and chapbooks of poetry and prose. Work has appeared internationally. Presa Press will be publishing a book of his Selected Poems in January 2007. Becoming more active in photography and loves dogs, all kinds of chocolates, and three year old children before they become corrupted by adults.
A.D.'s INFLUENCES:
Jack Micheline, the last of the true street poets. Bob Kaufman, the Black Messia of North Beach. And of course Charles Bukowski. Knew them all, and loved Micheline like a brother.
Click image for a profile of Micheline on the Beat Museum website; to read Winans' tribute to Micheline on the Book website, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here
BOB KAUFMAN
To read about Kaufman on the Beat Page website, click image; for the Modern American Poets pages for Kaufman, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here
CHARLES BUKOWSKI
Click image to listen to audio clips of Bukowski reading and discussing his work on the Mindspring site; for biography and poetry by Bukowski on the Beat Page, click here; for Graham Ray's review of 'The Bukowski Tapes' on The New Review section of this site, click here; for Matthew Firth's review of Bukowski's 'Slouching Towards Nirvana' on The New Review, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here
so many hospitals with
so many names of so many
saints
it makes the heart want
to bleed
Saint Francis
Saint Mary's
Saint Joseph
Saint Luke
Saint this one and that one
so many people lined-up
waiting on death
hacking and coughing
spitting up their insides
so many nurses with
dollar-bill eyes
strutting their stuff into the
parking lot
too tired for love
too tired to laugh
overcome with failure
and fatigue
so many doctors
so sad they can't be God
hiding their disappointment
in cocktail glasses
or between the legs of the
angels of mercy
so many doctors beaten-down
by death
so frustrated they take out
their anger on the golf courses
of America
in the bedrooms of loved ones
so many cardiac arrests
so many dead on arrivals
so many John Doe's
so many Jane Doe's
how many only the
business office knows
and the security guards
and the housekeeping staff
and the accountants
and the gray-haired lady volunteers
with eyes worn as an Indian Head penny
and the young nurses with bodies
like orange blossoms
who walk it on by your door
and my door
worn down stepped on
they eat and sleep
they make love
they masturbate with hands
and vibrators
some none too cleverly
some like Van Gogh
returning each day to walk the
halls like vampires
with paineted fingernails
that slice the flesh
to the bone
the doctors the nurses
the orderlies in white the
priests the patients and
loved ones
all seeking a private audience
with God
here behind these sterile walls
where death stalks the halls
with hot panting breath
licking the crevice of the soul
death the noble savage
death the avenging sadist
leaving behind her scars
playing out the game
to the bitter end
a giant hearse in
a sea of compact cars
Drummed out of the infantry of death
I came back to you carrying the
Poems of my soul
Opened the door of life
And found only death inside
America
I have read the state of the union
And listened to the state of the economy
By statesmen in a state of hysteria
America where the
Poor and the black
Are sentenced to Attica
And the rich serve time at San Clemente
America where the
Coal miners’ lungs are used
For corporate profit
Where the only sounds that can be heard
Is the opening and closing of the
Downtown Bank of America
America where the angry voices
Of soccer moms can be heard
Preparing their children for death
Amidst the hurried jerks of masturbation
Coming from the closets of the university
America where the elderly are treated
Like abandoned railway boxcars
Kept idle unemployed
Forced to walk the streets
Like an unacceptable poem
America
It's hard living in a country where the
Hours are shaped like coffins
The law and order administration
Running wild at Waco and Ruby Ridge
America where the politicians sold the
Country to General Motors and IBM
And gave the people buffalo stew
And scientology
Readers Digest has renewed its option
On the educational system
The mafia weans the poor on drugs
While McDonalds and Coca Cola
Compete for the nation’s heart
America
You leave a trail of death behind
Everywhere you go
Desecrating the bodies of men
Women and children
From Wounded Knee to Vietnam
To Iraq
Leaving behind a trail of genocide
As your calling card
America
Where the narcs of New York City
Grow fat on the fears of thousands
Of junkies
Where the high priest of the cemetery
Drinks the rooster’s blood
At the crossroad of reality
America
Where holiness is found in the
Bowels of Buddha
Where Christ died on the cross
And the police were quick
To take his place
America
The years grow heavy in the
Cavity of my heart
Leaving me feeling
Like an army mule carrying
A cargo of death
Your bicentennial message
Still ringing loud and clear
In every cash register across
America
The American way
If you can’t kill them
Buy them into the system
America
I grow older carrying
A new found vision warmer than
A child’s smile
Walking the streets of my mind’s
Third eye
Lady death blinking like the
Flickering candles on a birthday cake
America
You are the only county I have known
For any length of time
And I have no desire
For Cuba or Moscow
But I am a man
I am a poet
I am the energy running through
Your withered veins
Not afraid of your shock and awe
Your disregard for international law
All too aware of the storm troopers
Of justice
Who would turn off the beauty
And discard it like a rusted faucet
These men in blue
Who sniff the blood of my wounds
Like a hound dog crossing
A river of blood
Their sirens playing mad tunes
Outside my window
Like a poet forced to read underwater
Where the poet twice dead
And once resurrected
Turns over in his grave
But the middle finger he raises
Is jammed back down his throat
Until the shit he shits is theirs
And the blood they bleed is his
And the cries united
Fill the air
Like a lonely bird
Lost in flight
An old man stands in the
Doorway of an abandoned building
Shoulders stooped, Jesus beard
Ragged clothes, hands outstretched
Begging for his supper
A tote of wine
His prayers unanswered
Spittle on his chin
Holes in his shoes
Walt Whitman’s forgotten children
Hot lava erupting in my veins
Wet sensual screams flowing through
My blood
White-hot lightning bleeding
My heart
Like an undertaker dressing the dead
Your rainbow notes cutting into me
Like a surgeon’s scalpel
Leaving me feeling
Like a drunk Jesus walking
On water
His life was like
A bad luck gambler
Dealt a losing hand
If he had three aces
The other guy had a full house
Forced to walk the streets
Like an undertaker carrying
A bag of bones
When he was down
No one was around
And when he was up
Everyone else was down
Women avoided him
Like mustard gas
And poets testified against
Him in mass
Until he began to resemble
An eccentric baseball player
Who couldn’t remember
A win from a loss
Forced to walk the streets
With old treasure maps
Looking for gold and coming
Up craps
Priests dressed in robes
Of splendour the Vatican
With its own bank
One hundred poor boys
In the drunk tank
TV evangelist’s shacking-up
With whores
Priests molesting young boys
Tossed into the dung-heap
Like cheap kindling wood
A blanket of human bones
To keep the church fires burning
Hot humid night
Blanket pushed to floor
Sheets wet with perspiration
My hand traces a pattern
Down the curve of your back
Your flesh a sacred monument
Waiting to be climbed
You make me feel
Like a ballerina walking
A high-tension wire
A pilgrim in the night
Asking to be let in
Survivor, old-timer
In search of a fix
Burned spoon hovering over
Hot flame
Like a moth courting a light bulb
Arm stretched tight with rubber band
Liquid death riding sunken vein
Resembling a cowboy looking forward
To the last trail drive
BOB KAUFMAN
CHARLES BUKOWSKI
