Gods Don't Cry
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Gods Don't Cry

 A.D. Winans
 A.D. Winans
Gods Don't Cry
by A.D. Winans  FollowFollow
In 1958 I returned to San Francisco after three years in the military, in Panama. I discovered the North Beach Beat era and made North Beach...read more my home away from home for over thirty years. I frequented Beat bars like Gino and Carlo's and The Place, and met Bob Kaufman at the Co-Existence Bagel Shop. Later I would become friends with poets like Jack Micheline and Harold Norse. I crossed-over in to the Hippie generation and met Richard Brautigan and many others. I hung around with small press publishers like Ben Hiatt and Kell Robertson, and published my own magazine, Second Coming, from 1972 through 1989. I organized the 1980 Poets and Music Festival honoring the poet Josephine Miles and Blues musician John Lee Hooker. I worked at a variety of jobs, including jobs with the San Francisco Art Commission and the U.S. Department of Education, Civil Rights Divsion. BOS press will soon release a 250 page book of my selected poems. You can find detailed information on me at my web site www.adwinans.mysite.com My only advise to poets and writers is "Walk the Walk" and not just "talk the talk."
More work by A.D. Winans:
Gods Don't Cry
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(For Charles Bukowski)

He was a leper
An angel
          A barbarian.

He had shark's teeth
          That drew blood from
Friends and foes alike.

He was a shot of whiskey
A fine Cuban cigar
A rattlesnake without
A warning system.

He was a shaman
A witch doctor
A tout
A long shot in a fixed race.

He was a hit man
      Leaving a trail of blood behind
                       As his signature card.

He was a geek
           A bully boy
A butterfly
A moth courting
           A light bulb.

He was a hustler
           A con artist
A defrocked priest
Walking  the streets of L.A.
              Looking for absolution.

He was a shyster
A magician
A clown with the best
            Act in town.

He was the Pied Piper
             Of Los Angeles
With a bevy of female vampires
Following him to hell.

He was the King of San Pedro
A Hollywood cult hero
Who never understood the
                Meaning of zero.

His boasted conquests
Put Don Juan to shame
Staking out his territory
Like a seasoned alley cat.

He was the undisputed champion
                Of the small press world
Taking on all comers
Ready to win at all costs
Be it by a KO or a low blow.

And he cried in the shower
But God's don't cry
Or do they?

Also by A.D. Winans



  10 months ago
This is pretty damn good. "He was... a moth courting a light bulb" is such a fantastic image.
  3 years ago
Advise is a verb.

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