Poems by S.A. Gerber.

Al Fresco

The jagged street corner

provides a brief respite.

I am chewed up and

spit out by the sidewalks.

Both weary and leery of

trains, busses, and all

methods of ‘road tripping’.

Back in “los angel city”,

downtown to be exact.

(Madness, it seems, has

always migrated West).

In the alley I find a seat.

Back against an abandon

warehouse, I sip what’s

left of my pint with Mort.

Someone coming out of

“The Pantry” gave him their

doggie bag, and we split

pork roast and fried potatoes.

In this down and out version

of ‘Al Fresco’, Mort is a man

of taste and largesse.

We finish off with red wine

he purchased for 89 cents,

and my last two cigarettes.

Leaning back against the

warehouse, facing the

unseen Pacific Ocean,

both silently cursing the

choices we’ve made, yet still

enjoying the calm, winter night.

Could be worse…

this could be Minnesota—

freezing our ‘sacks’ in

downtown Duluth.

The pork could’a been dried out—

We could be alone…

yeah.

Could always be worse.

 

One More L.A. Short Take

Ten thirty-four pm—

still sipping at my

after dinner cappuccino,

in this upscale

Beverly Hills eatery.

Been sitting a long time…

waiting for the check.

The manager approaches…

says he’ll take us whenever

we are  ready.

Our waiter, it seems,

had a late night audition.

 

Promise of Paradise

I see the cheated.

I watch with sadness,

with a “Day of the Locust”

kind of irony, the folk

who came to California,

aspirations and delusions

aplenty, and tragically

had to settle for far less.

Every secretary is an actor

along with every waiter;

every cabbie has a script,

and  all telemarketers are

would or want-to-be producers.

The ride in compact-Japanese

‘limos’ to ten-plex ‘mansions’

where they attempt escape

by any means available.

What becomes the hardest

to erase and the most painful

to endue, is the final realization

that not everyone with talent,

who saves their pennies to come,

hits the target.

Most promises of paradise lay

as faded and broken as the

old ‘back-lot’ facades.

Nathaniel West knew—

John Fante knew—

Bukowski knew.

They braved the trail only to

stop to yell out a caution

over their collective shoulders.

They knew.

Poems by S.A. Gerber.