Walking Woman 1
Below a San Francisco tavern
in a shadowy space, in a division street alley,
there appears a woman
a walking woman beneath me
like an old dream
that wiggle-walking lass; slinking down
that stinky-drink rinky-dink lane.
While in motion, her wink up to my tower:
her gesture perhaps to pay her a call—
to join her down there
in that skanking short-money trail.
She, paper-bag holding;
her drink, in firm clutch, in waved right hand—
she, down there, eye-lash lassie
she, mascara-heavy
she, her upward-gaze, floating
she—there, hips whispered wide
she, of wonder-walking legs
of seeming invitation—now, more than pretty
she, somewhat wounded, nicely-shaped
with well-turned ankle; she, maybe ready
She with clandestine booze in her hand
she, cradling a can of ale
and, in her canter, slight wiggle-wobble
her back-and-forth, her leather-coated way;
and beneath me—she, black-clad kitten—
closely fleshed, skin-pretty.
Me, down the stairs, almost nonchalant—
in no great hurry, reaching the alley
and now, finding her gone, not there:
finding her disappeared
gone from me, once again.
Vince Storti (c)2006
Mime Troupe Witness 1
Upon the slope, a place in the shade:
a spot to sit under a tree:
a slow march across the crest of the hill.
From below, I see movement: a man rushes to get past me:
I wonder if he worries that I might get to that tree before he does
worried I might take that special tree, his special tree—
but I think he worries too much: it was a race he couldn’t win:
even though he got there before me, I found a tree that was even better—
and I was sad I didn’t get a chance to thank him.
The Mime troupe and music breaking out of special speakers
children and dogs are running: there is a beautiful scene of the city
here under a tree on a hill, in the shade, a house of sorts:
there are no walls, but lots of windows.
All around me, petitioners calling:
they are trying to stop pollution, to stop war, to stop anger,
as my thoughts wander as I recall a noon meal: a burrito at La Cumbre
where I didn’t rush to get ahead of anyone in line
as I became very polite because—at first—I’d forgotten to say “please”.
Respect must come when it does: and when it does it is noticed:
it must come quite often, like the pleasure
of a breeze blowing up a hill
where the bell tower of Mission high is at eye-level
and the city is spread out to one side below
in a view beneath me like an untold story
of high clouds and a favorite city
of high clouds and shade and shadows
of high clouds and wind and no windows
of high clouds and the amusement of music
where from the theatre of the hill
above the theater of Mime Troupers
I listen to that low buzz of performers telling stories
with those distant tales I no longer need to hear.
Vince Storti, (c) 2006
Vince Storti:Graduated from Cal Berkeley; founder, editor and publisher of North Coast Literary Review; founder, editor and publisher of Awaa-te, a literary arts magazine, issues 1-2; founder of Awaate-Productions, a 501 (c) (3) literary arts organization. Varied pursuits in the arts. including poetry, music, writing, auditory investigations; film, pen-and-ink visualizations.
Vince Storti is living somewhere on a palm-tree studded island, surrounded by Victorian houses and rumors of a revolution against all forms of sailboats. He is a current recipient of a first prize for poetry by Bay Area Poets Coalition. He is the author of two chapbooks and is the editor and publisher of North Coast Literary Review. He thinks you should all have a nice time beyond the world's end in 2012.
He closes his closet door nightly, just so the beatnik ghosts won't get him. He works to create visual and literary pieces which investigate conscious and unconscious realms. He believes in what we all believe in.
This bio blatantly copied from the Daniel Yaryen's excellent Sparring With Beatnik Ghosts Anthology..... Nicole, sfheart.com.
more Vince Storti at levurelitteraire.com |
~ rest in peace ~
VINCE STORTI
(June 1944 ~March 2017)
We Were Hours
In hours of day and night
we were gestures of our becoming
we were nature’s hints of distant music
we were hands reaching out beneath quiet thunder
we were slight rhythms working ordinary tasks
we engaged fingers and muscles and bones.
We were what pulled us in;
we were whispered by risking promise
we danced beneath moonlight’s shared midnight
we were lost in cadences of movement
we touched the gifts of belonging
we fled our momentary doubts
we escaped long engagements
we had no explanations, we
moved; we simply were
Vince Storti
(June 8, 1946-March 26, 2017)
Three Strangers In North Beach
Vince Storti, ©2005
from North Coast Review, Issue 2
shades
2010
ANTHOLOGY #2 (2009)Sparring With Beatnik Ghosts
Cover Art by Vince Storti
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