Beginning from Pacific Avenue

Our pre-Quake of a snake-winding & flower child-quaint

Pacific Garden Mall of years gone by!

is now a post-Quake straight-out-moneyed decorator tree-lit-lined

tourist boulevard—

New buildings still go up seasonally where others came down;

new businesses come & go—now you see them & now they go—;

always there’re new faces, always new exchanges & rendezvous,

always new intentions & big plans,

always new pipe dreams & crashes & existential resurrections,

& a flood of memories come back as I cruise along this path,

Pacific Avenue—

Heart of our city!

And faithfully I will walk our Avenue & all the streets of the heart

for you,

I will sing on this Cruz, as best I can sing, a Thread of Song

winding throughout its life,

observing all, noting characters along the way, naming names,

remembering what once was, relating anecdotes—so-and-so

& so-and-so—,

spinning vignettes of reverie;

& even our local businesses I will name & bring alive for you.

Here is our canvas, this place, this magical place,

as Norma once said,

where the paints are plenty—

Yes, I remember once,

when I was on my way out of town,

I stopped at the traffic light Water & Pacific,

four people stood beneath the Town Clock,

(& through the years various protesters with signs & banners

have stood beneath our landmark Town Clock)

four people stood there on that day, a family perhaps,

out having some local commentary fun—

It was Mom, Dad, a boy & a girl, lined up in a row,

all dressed in these prim scout trooper uniforms,

& each held up a blank white sign for all to see—

Imagine that

BLANK WHITE SIGNS

One motorist yelled out, not comprehending,

"What's it say?"

"Whatever!" replied the girl.

—So it goes.

—Only in Santa Cruz, as they say—

And so it goes—

Every day the building of the heart goes outward—

You sit a few moments on the Avenue as I do now

& all the regulars of this world begin to saunter by...

Say, for example,

a man—for some reason—happens to spot me, he stops,

he’s slight bent by age, sporting a San Francisco Giants ball cap

& tweed sports jacket,

& asks me about Clinton, actually a gambit to share

his opinion, but that's alright;

he says,

It's none of the government's damn business what Clinton did,

& he couldn't remember me now, could he?

15 years ago Community Hospital

he would stop in after joggin' & chatter awhile.

And only moments later, there’s another—

the once computer geek who abandoned tons of boxes

of belongings at our house over 3 years ago, before I moved in,

I see him walk by, often see him play chess with others, here,

at S. Cruz Coffee Roasting Company, where I sit,

—he has no idea what became of his stuff—

but always I see him

wandering the Avenue, & once again I’ll see him play chess,

here, at the Coffee Roasting Company...

And sooner or later,

if you're downtown enough,

you're bound to encounter really bent-over Wilma

—well, that's what I first named her, not knowing her name,

but found out later her name happens to be Jean—,

it's usually the back of her head,

a mass of thick blonde hair hangin' over, hidin' her face,

she's in her heavy black coat, has inward bent legs,

her trusty bike weighed down with bags never far,

she rides around town all day oblivious to others,

perhaps more dangerous, she's oblivious to cars,

with all that hair, bent over so, it's a wonder

she can see.

And how many remember ol' Tom Scribner,

he's immortalized in sculpture now in front of Bookshop S. Cruz,

playin' a saw as you would see him in the late 70s play,

there, in the little hippy corner park across from the Town Clock,

next old Common Ground coffee hang-out

twanging there his geee-tar saw—

How many remember him?

And Kosmic Lady

once proselytized on the ol' Mall,

a one time social worker, then, at some point in her life,

something changed for her—

You would see her shouldering a huge astro-prophetic mandala cross

preaching the Good News of these new times

that UFO people were here—

She had a wedding ceremony once, tying a loose knot with a guy

name of Morning Star,

—it turned out to be short-lived—;

the ceremony though I remember took place

in the short-lived Phoenix New Age Café

where the Coffee Roasting Company went in,

that was, before the Quake—

I remember 'cause Sylvia & I had announced it New Years '78

on radio waves KZSC—

(must’a been Elizabeth Gips’ program then)

Like, everyone out there listening was welcome to the ceremony.

And now I find Mr. Twister,

found recent national media fame

with his, as the slogan went,

Mr. Twister, Feed my meter,

from a parking meter ordinance infraction

which got him

the big attention—

He's standin' next his multilayer-collaged footlocker,

decked out with red mop hair, clown face red nose, multicolored pants

& gold glittery vest & smiling face necktie & decaled baseball cap;

he perfected the craft of balloon twisting, whatever your fancy,

he'll make a facsimile—

Mr. Twister claimed he had no teacher,

learned it all on his own, did it his way,

but,

Love, luck, & lots of coin,

are a street performer's blessing,

said he

with a honk honk of his horn.

And a Thread of memory is guiding me

through all these years of street performers on the Ave—

The hundreds of guitarists, violinists, flutists,

& sax players,

jazz ensembles,

the Little Bit of Love singers

ages 5 to 15

showed up a season,

the Equal Time Sax Quartet on weekend afternoons;

last Labor Day there was a bass string wash tub thumper

jammin' with some guitar player;

& the jugglers, comics, street poets, magicians,

bubble makers...

& a Thread is guiding me

for the performance that is a lifetime—

One day I'm walking along

& these young guys walk by, I hear one ask another,

"Why did you dress up in drag? Were you confused by your girl?"

& others walk by, "Didn't you see her? She waved at you, Brad—"

& the missing-teeth man in blue jean jacket, been on this street for years,

as usual is talkin' aloud to himself,

No napalm tonight...

apparently reliving some fragment of memory,

& grungy youth are sittin' on the pavement lookin' pitiful, little sign askin'

for money,

& a young woman is playin' a harp in closed-for-the-day food kiosk alcove,

singin’ sweetly to ethereal angelic tones,

& on the cement edge of a planter box a gal guitarist sings,

Spread your wings, you can fly...

& a Hare Krishna man with backpack paces one side the street,

then the other,

chantin' amidst tourists the endless Krishna mantra,

starin' ahead,

noninteractive,

& one afternoon Jeffrey the Hemp Poet & I were talkin',

suddenly his eyes focused & followed four identical surf-&-sand girls

walking along shoulder to shoulder,

& lesbian couples talk & smile, walkin' along nonchalant hand-in-hand,

& even on a chilly night I see a man standin' on the corner

next New Leaf Market beatin' a bongo, chantin'

Santa Cruz, Santa Cruz, over & over

& he sends out a howl Aaahhhoooooo...

& the spray paint artist Saturday nights sets up in front of Graphix,

his face hidden behind a double-barreled protective mask

quietly workin' ignorin' the audience always gathered,

a little boom box background music playin',

his works spread out for all to view—

these, like, extraordinary, otherworldly,

idealized, tropic splendorous of landscapes...

And so I'm still sittin' havin' a coffee

at the Coffee Roasting Company, a woman in a long wool coat,

green parrot on her shoulder, sits next table over from me,

& what a range, like incredible, the voice of that parrot,

accosting people as they stroll along & wonder What the heck?

Where did that come from?

And I remember the man

—what was his name?—he had to have a name—

but let's just say he was the Starin'-at-the-Sun-Man—

20 years ago he used to stand on one of the corners of the ol’ Mall,

he’d stand there & just point & stare at the Sun,

his mouth movin' like chompin' on somethin';

he looked like some long-bearded Hindu guru went crazed,

just pointin' & starin', feedin’ his eyes

on the beautiful brilliance of the Sun.

Vaguely I remember

he was murdered, pushed off a nearby bridge.

—It was the trolls did it, as some locals called the homeless

who lived down by the bridge.

And I remember another man,

he was the Man-Who-Paced—

he’d pace the ol' Mall always starin' at the pavement

both arms flailing, always swatting at imaginary somethings...

And of course

we are descended upon by all the tourists & out-of-towners;

& of course this is a student town—

everywhere you go, you find students, students,

& more students

—high school, Cabrillo College, but especially UCSC

Like, dude, this has gotten to be a university town—

& there’re all the street people, punkers, retro stylers,

Christians passin' out their Jesus Saves leaflets

—sometimes a group gathers with guitars

& sings songs of Savior Jesus.

And I knew locals

who avoided the ol’ Mall, couldn't stand all the weirdness

& the faces of the homeless,

'specially after Reagan cut social services back in the 80s

& the floodgates of mental institutions were thrown open

—Saint Silicon years ago called The Cruz

the largest open air asylum in the country—

& to me what a privilege it is

to live here

in such a multiple mini-world community

—or call it, if you wish, social/cultural diversity—

the inner subterranean worlds allowed here

—comparatively,

to the majority of the country—

their 3rd-dimensional space-time expression,

which is the richness of soul

we so much need

(—repression, I believe, is the original human madness—)

for it is here the Goddess

liberates

—& so let us honor the Goddess—

& let us share & reveal ourselves freely & openly,

& do it with heart

—& with Art.

Walkin' along now,

I stop to hear the dark moustache accordionist playin’,

our getting-to-be-well-known Julio, The Great Morgani—

Some other guy, tipsy, moments before latched onto him,

& this guy’s pudgy, a white moustache,

& is spoutin' somethin’ Italian,

O Mama Mia...Pizza Pie...

'bout all I can make out,

& he snags a woman walkin' by

& they start dancin' to one of Julio’s numbers

like gypsies of the street—

Aahhhh, he is in heaven, emoting melodious romance in Italian,

they are this moment the scene—

And as the music ends, she plants a kiss on his cheek,

& his surprise is like Wow!

& just as he hopes for more, she mentions a husband,

& must go, & says

Chaio—

And so perhaps this once only,

he would dance this one & only dance

with her...

And I'm rememberin'

the Cooper House, a Cruz historic building

brought down by the wrecking ball, so soon after the Quake—

The Crepe Place was in there then,

& there was a bar—don’t remember the name—,

with light jazz a daily fare by a group name of Warmth

playin' for customers outside

sittin’ round tables, these umbrellas shadin’ ‘em,

& people would stop & watch from the sidewalk & get to dancin’,

like Gypsy Rose would do, dancing there,

on the sidewalk,

& I knew a nurse from the hospital

used to dance there too,

on the sidewalk,

& it was one late summer sultry kickback evening

I sat there with Teresa & her beau

toastin' drinks & sharin' feelin’s,

& it was such a romantic affair

I had goin' with The Cruz,

& this epiphany came to me,

Why are we here?

I swooned on lavender air so gorgeous—

We are here to create legends.

And Psyche, master Thread maker

& weaver of the Way,

shows me

my way—

And there she is,

lookin' all the part of the femme fatale,

standin' tall in tight black pants, black glasses & a cap,

sleeveless, bright red lips,

strummin' her guitar on the Ave—

She's singin',

Let's go downtown,

Let's go downtown tonight...

1999