I met Ric Masten shortly after I moved to San Francisco to become a poet and found my voice in all that I had left back home on the Monterey Peninsula. Ric encouraged me to embrace my alienation, darkness, and transcend it through beauty, and, of course, humor- which nothing can assail. Ric's passing came at a time when entirely too many close to me, both young and old, also passed away. A tribute to him in the Monterey Poetry Review seemed entirely appropriate- I am delighted that we finally are putting out this issue. I'd like to thank Alan Soldofsky for urging me towards this idea.
THE DANCE OF THE URBAN HONEYBEE
I needed to mail a letter
so I go to my corner Walgreen1s
and purchase 4 stamps for $1.99...
Later, when the .48 cent difference occurs to me,
I wonder if I paid extra
for the red cursive emblemed cardboard
and plastic wrapping, or convenience?
Yesterday I saw a man yell at hotel strikers-
workers of less than $10/hour, locked out
for demanding health benefits.
The man said the strikers made too much noise"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
They call me teacher, poet, guide;
the honeybee sent out to find a new destination
where the hive can find safety.
Yet, I'm finding no answers;
my students think I1m crazy,
too tough of a grader,
there's a hole in the ceiling of my classroom,
and the heater doesn't work.
On the streets, panhandlers stand on their heads
next to marquis that say,
3All you could ever want to eat2.
While, Bitsey, the heroin addict midget prostitute
crutches across Market Street
her freshly amputated left stump
swinging in rhythm
with the swoosh of shiny traffic.
And what's most sad is that it is all so familiar.
So I dance my hallucinatory jig that's supposed to tell
"this is where we go from here"
to a vacant hive
no answers just
a solitary moan of panicked despair.
THE DANCE OF THE URBAN HONEYBEE
I needed to mail a letter
so I go to my corner Walgreen1s
and purchase 4 stamps for $1.99...
Later, when the .48 cent difference occurs to me,
I wonder if I paid extra
for the red cursive emblemed cardboard
and plastic wrapping, or convenience?
Yesterday I saw a man yell at hotel strikers-
workers of less than $10/hour, locked out
for demanding health benefits.
The man said the strikers made too much noise"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
They call me teacher, poet, guide;
the honeybee sent out to find a new destination
where the hive can find safety.
Yet, I'm finding no answers;
my students think I1m crazy,
too tough of a grader,
there's a hole in the ceiling of my classroom,
and the heater doesn't work.
On the streets, panhandlers stand on their heads
next to marquis that say,
3All you could ever want to eat2.
While, Bitsey, the heroin addict midget prostitute
crutches across Market Street
her freshly amputated left stump
swinging in rhythm
with the swoosh of shiny traffic.
And what's most sad is that it is all so familiar.
So I dance my hallucinatory jig that's supposed to tell
"this is where we go from here"
to a vacant hive
no answers just
a solitary moan of panicked despair.
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