MISSION MIRACLES
Event #09: 07/01/2010
Alan Kaufman has described the open mic that goes down each Thursday at the 16th and Mission Street Bart Station as having the quality of a long-awaited miracle. And who am I to disagree with Alan Kaufman?
16th and Mission is one of the most crime-ridden corners in all of San Francisco, but on Thursday nights it is lit with an unearthly glory. That’s strong, but how else can I describe it?
Founding father Charlie Getter is a gentle, tottering bohemian giant and to watch him almost invisibly inspire his crew is an unforgettable experience.
I had the thrill of attending the “binding party” for the most recent book and it was like a miraculous graduate poetry seminar in a heavenly MFA program the likes of which does not exist on any college campus. And it is not just the wonderful words on the page (and wonderful they are) but the community which is so deeply aware that they have found something bigger than themselves and their ambitions. They are priests working a communion miracle which is articulated in eyes and manners and not theological tomes. Charlie is some kind of weird shaman who must have found some sort of secret medicine. I overheard an acolyte quote Charlie to the affect that, “Poetry is an affliction. If you’re not afflicted, don’t bother.” Lay it on me, brother, I’ll pick up my cross or whatever and walk along.
For two hours on this Thursday night there seemed to be an endless parade of creative expression. Nic Allea performed a piece about writing down secrets (NOW you’re writing!) and Alan Kaufman- who appeared to be incapable of wiping a beatific grin off of his face as he contemplated the scene – read a moving poem about the persistence of memory and the Holocaust. Evan Karp was there, paying close attention, with his ubiquitous video recorder.
As I stood on the sidelines, I encountered a drunken man, perhaps 60 to 70 years old. He was short and stout and dirty and he had the doughy face, enlarged nose, and watery eyes of a long term chronic and homeless alcoholic. He tugged at my sleeve.
“What’s going on?” he asked me. “What’s going on?”
“They’re reading poetry,” I told him.
A teenage boy standing nearby added, “That’s right. That’s right.”
The man’s eyes teared up and he looked sad and distant and wise. “Poetry…..” he whispered. “Poetry? Yes. Yes. I like poetry.”
He paused as though entranced.
“You could say something,” I told him.
“Yes, yes, you could,” said a young girl, overhearing us.
The man shook his head. “Oh, no, oh no, not now,” he murmured. “I love to listen.”
“Perhaps another night,” I told him.
Perhaps. It could happen.
You may read the poem I wrote and recited at this event by clicking here.
