It was a tie-dye day
and Kaufman was golden down the road from the park
it must have been the sun, the crowd, the beat
as he looked everywhere but at me.
I remember him waiting
as if for fog to lift from the over-plagued City
of homeless, of AIDS, of victims of long-ago lands
of Jones and Milk
he was bedshakes and earthquakes
and poetry stages' crowds repeating line
after Kaufman after Eliot
Schwartz shows, Spaghetti Factory huddles
and Kaufman slinks over, waiting for a drunk
and the Chelsea, three year running open
Kaufman and Lynne, elegant and alive
cutting-in to read, Moe on the side
Kaufman on the outside for a Mark Schwartz reading
if only I'd told the messenger I'd be glad to see him
we lost him in our light weight
Bob Kaufman could have died after after that episode
and in Judaic style, I turn
the page of the New York Times 180 degrees to the ground
noting the title to say Bob Kaufman
died of emphysema - and not lonliness !
not alcohol !
not old age !
the halls of Central Park, 42nd Street library, humming
of rollers and whispers of someone, maybe
me getting shot.
maybe this means whiskey,
or beer. God knows where.
Avoid East 5th Street and maybe I'll live to eat peanut butter
and Kosher jelly with bananas in a boycott against time.
Bob Kaufman, wherever you are, old friend, you live with me
black, black and taking photos of your room within the moon.
from The Cafe Review
Monday, May 17, 2002
Here above plentitude
are the homeless people
reading their People’s Tribune
and drinking cappuccinos
an arc of water in crystal rainbow
bathes their feet
in rivers ending in tributaries
far from the desert of the nomads
where salt lines the tongue
until sand crumbles in corners of eyes
“ will you wear my eyes”
asks the poet Bob Kaufman
in a drunk oblivion chewing a cop’s ear
while Micheline pisses on the cop’s feet
beneath the green corner building in North Beach
clowns wearing street clothes
dream in colored jingle bells
christmas lights and the red and green
of rain soaked streets
and the earthworm crosses the road
One thing that is good about the war
is that it took one’s mind off the earthquake
which took one’s mind off the drought
which took one’s mind off the homeless
which took one’s mind off of sex
which took one’s mind off.
with Jerry 1/16/91
Red, white and blue in the rain
Red for the murdered Zapatistas in Chiapas
the slaughtered Indians in westward movement
the blood of HIV-positive people
White for the oppressive class
the innocence and naivete of the social condition of
Blue for the end of profits, money, credit cards,banks
for the feeling I get when I feel the condition we're in
The rain is giving us new perspective
It is washing away the fear to change
The earth is being replenished
And we are thinking, ready to act.
Mark Schwartz, from 'A Picture is WORTH 62 Words'
Mark's Pink Daisy
Mark's rubbing his tummy
like a round Buddha in reflection
looking at the pink daises
"Where have been for two weeks?
The flowers are wilting everywhere," he says
"Even Kyoto is barren, "chimes in
Chuck Bernstein, the jazz drummer and world traveler
Mark says I should convey
this messsage to the world,
"Bring me a flower to smell,
a lover to love, a dream
to shine through the smog."
A poem for Mark by Allen Cohen
And Only This; (for Mark Schwartz) by Brian M Morrisey
ART HOUSE GALLERY PRESENTS:
JACK HIRSCHMAN & MARK SCHWARTZ
MARK SCHWARTZ for of BERKELEY 2012
On Third Street Kerouac Revisited
These poems drift into our subconscious wit the sound of a town crier, a thinker, a dreamer.
Many of these poems are dreams. In some magical way, Schwartz captures captures the essence of pre-yuppie San Francisco.
Bravo Mark!.... Joie Cook
(Magenta Press, San Francisco, California: 2009)
27 pages, 25 poems, $5.00.
Most poets like to hide behind whatever is handy: Marilyn Monroe’s shopping cart, tradition, a FEDEX collection box, a 4" X 7" thin screen, a piece of lemon meringue pie jammed into a coffee mug or their latest poem.
Mark Schwartz bares it all: without the thinnest coat
of varnish, but not without an overwhelming tsunami
of love. His lyricism, so honest and direct, would scare the pants off hot shot Byron and the henna rinse out of Sarah Bernhart’s eye brows. Schwartz is fearless.
On Third Street: Jack Kerouac Re-visited is indeed the archetypal slender volume. However, the contents, a refreshing combination of applied Zen and espresso highs, are much bigger than dreams and much wilder than life.
Reviewed by Marvin R. Hiemstra @ http://www.bayareapoetsreview.com/2009_1
“The Last Words of Ronald Sauer and Mark Late at Night in Specs’” snappily terminates On Third Street:
Jack Kerouac Re-visited with dry Zen humor."
Ronald: “If you’re not going to buy me a drink,
Mark: “Good night, Ronald.”
Mark Schwartz is more left than left in feeding the bereft, and his very wit is a pox upon yuppiedom.
Some call him fool or hypocrite, but there is no denying the guy's got courage and is a hell of a lot funnier than Feminists & Moslems on Prozac and like the air, he's omni-present, indispensable and harder to see through every day....Ronald F. Sauer, S.F.
Another good thing about Mark Schwartz:
Mark is a very talented poet and a hilarious dinner companion not to mention he is an absolute ace at locating the elusive parking space in North Beach (one night, I drove around the block a dozen times, ran into Mark at the corner of Pacific and Grant, he asked if he could help me find a parking place, jumped in my car, and I swear to God, somebody pulled out of a space about 1/3 of a block away). If you spend any time at all in the land of North Beachia, you will understand how rare THAT is! ...Judy Joy Jones
More Books by Mark Schwartz
poet duets and combos2
Berkeley, CA : CC. Marimbo ; ©2002
"And Now Then"
Calliope press ©2002
Not Just My Own
Haikus to Fool With
The Joke's on Me,
Mark Schwartz Explodes
Mark Schwartz Dream Prose CD