Friday, July 20, 2012

San Francisco Bar Beat

There is no better city in the world to become a barfly then San Francisco which is a great reason why the city is my favorite one in the US but an equally great reason why I do not live there. I could easily see myself shacking up as a regular on a stool (or a few) in various neighborhoods like Bukowsky to get my literary grit on.

But when I visit I like going to the old and beloved and well as finding the new. On a recent  trip with the Cute Gardener, we sampled quite a few so I decided to get inspired by my fellow man Jack Kerouac, who loved the city so much that he penned one of my favorite little books called San Francisco Blues, and ink some little ditties.

Haight Ashbury Persian lair, throbbing like a quilted womb,
Ottoman empire mosque shaped bar,
intimate corners 'neath sexy night
amber plum red light cush
weird and exotic rums
and dark-skinned, almond eyes girls
mingling with gay men
mingling with old, dazed, silver haired male hippies
and a pregnant bartender wiser than her 1960s waif sisters.
Good for heated conversations
quiet privacy beneath arched doorways
and jewel colored glasses that glisten
like prisms
throughout the blackness. A throbbing womb
to welcome and hold the curious.

South of Market lobby bar,
breathes and sighs,
whisks you in to its sleek elite,
black polished granite for the clack
of heels and nightcaps-
ending with men in dinnertime coats-
and their lovely dolls lolling across their laps.
Big burly bears stroking mutual thighs on couch,
arrogant young rich boys in for the feminine kill,
politicians getting loose with ladies for sale,
and a neat Old Man and the Sea in a tall glass
between my fishnet-coated knees.

Bare bones rectangular space
with noted street cocktail cred,
perched on stools till witching hour
sampling good old fashioned craft:
bourbon and cherries,
egg cream, port wine and coffee,
blood and sand with fruity brandy,
a poop deck scatological cognac…

…making friends with locals
dressed in vintage blue flick finery
laughter cracking alongside the cubes
of big fat ice floating in gold glass.
Photographing churches on the streets
rolling home.

North Beach joint of the Beats and jazz,
history peppered, smoke shellac walls,
ground zero for literary pilgrims
cuba libres with lime and boisterous boys
bartended by unisex hep cats
no nonsense sketchpad and hang around den.

SOMA wood and swank,
belly up to the bar and spit out your list of faves
to the jolly and hip bartenders
who do nothing more than crave
a list of ingredients,
a piece of sassafras about your ass,
and thirty seconds of gab
before concocting for you, the
drink of your dreams
based on what’s inherent to your palate
and the mood you’d like to make.


  1. Now this was entertaining....I like your food blog with some jazzy free verse mixed in.....