"We know some things, man, about some things, Bob Kaufman said, strutting downanother San Francisco street on his wayfrom there to whatever's here. His pocketswere turned out to their linty partslike a magician's mid-trick. He had a dullpencil tucked between his ear& his preternatural Afro. I followed,up roller-coaster hills, past misbegottenalley kisses, hummingbirds everywherehitchhike-thumbing California's daylight."
"Bob Kaufman loved San Francisco'sgentle malaise, long views of bay& insistent bridge, the ocean right after. I'm from Indiana, where dirt roadslead to other dirt roads that alwayslead to fields of blondly tasselled stalkswafted by local infidelities. Whenthe wind kicks up, crops stammer secretsrecklessly as the gnats cloud in buggydoubts above those lazy farmers in repose.Just like the poets in San Franciscochez lounging-it in silk kimonosfor their gorgeous, sun-slicked photos."
Bob Kaufman strides San Francisco streets with pockets turned out, a dull pencil tucked behind his ear, and a preternatural Afro, moving through roller-coaster hills and alley kisses. He loves the city's gentle malaise, long bay views, and the ocean beyond the bridge. The narrator contrasts skyward San Francisco poets lounging in silk kimonos with Indiana dirt roads that lead to tasselled fields and lazy farmers. Kaufman enjoyed greater fame in France than local poets, yet spent a decade silent in San Francisco, appearing wrong-eyed and woebegone while living in hobo couture and sleeping on the street.
Read at www.newyorker.com
Unable to calculate read time
Collection
[
|
...
]