*Legend of 261 Corso Cristòforo Colombo, The*

by Paul Siegell

—for Luke Kasdan-Codd

As if standing before a jury, upstairs, before the shelf life 
of City Lights, meaning over-
whelmed linguistics. All the word heroes, accessible, odd
friends keeping company 
like a field of headstones raging still, We’re not dead yet!
 
Sensitive, a hand slid out PICTURES of the gone world, 
sought the shopkeeper’s jumping off. 
How much does a first book of poetry say about a stranger?
Pulled Corso’s GASOLINE 
for the likewise—You see from where one came: the first 
publishable ideas: the ambitious,
unsolved artist, prior to mass- or even missed-acceptance. 
 
Picked up San Francisco Poems by Ferlinghetti as well.
 
And there’s this well, white-bearded man in before eyes, 
blocking the left of a brown 
case overflowing with brothers Jack & Allen. A Kerouac 
went tipsy. Father-like, as if to say, 
Stand up straight with your thin twins in print, the older 
gentleman realigned the ranks. “Oh, 
excuse me,” he turned, kindly asked, “Am in your way?”
 
“Not at all.” 
 
But, he was—He was. Wasn’t gonna say that though—
Course not. Rather, looked  
to my teachers. The blue cover of San Francisco Poems 
greeted with the grainy black and  
white bridge of smile: a bearded, soft bay fog handling 
the hat upon his head. Looked 
around the image’s light. As close as recognition. Upon
 
the wall hung a poster with another photo, the same joy: 
the smiling man: the owner a-the 
store: the PoetArtistPublisher. I turned, placed a gaze: Yes!
(This is why yer here.) “Sir,” I
nervously nodded, showing PICTURES of the gone world
and San Francisco Poems. 
On this, my first visit to Frisco: “May I have the honor?” 
 
“Oh,” he exhaled, “sure,” and reached out like he must’ve 
done thousands before. Tens 
a-thousands by then. He checked a pocket with his free 
hand. The kinda thing which 
gives one hope—Ferli—A word revolutionary sighting. 
 
“Do you have a pen?” he asked.
 
“Uhh,” the cashier downstairs’d taken my book bag. (My 
Steve’s Pack Jerusalem wallet!) 
Slyly, in with all my cards and cash hid my spare car key, 
which rung through a ring, 
which rung through a flip-pen keychain. Dug it out, spun 
the small ballpoint into position 
and handed it to the Poet Laureate of the City of Poetry.
 
He opened PICTURES to the beginning’s blank leaf and 
began signing. “This pen,” he 
intoned, “has a key on it.” He opened San Fran. The key 
clinked—“It’s a key pen.”—
and dangled down the slope of his thumb like an amulet.
 
“The key gets in the way.” And he returned his words.
 
“I’ll, I’ll remember that.” I shook his hand, stunned, said, 
“Thank you.” He smiled into his office, shut the door.
 
            July 23, 2003:
 
                        This pen has a key on it.
                                                            It’s a key pen—
            The key gets in the way.
 
                                                —Ferlinghe#i
 

 

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~ This piece was posted on Tuesday, May 27th, 2008 and was filed under Writing, Poetry. You can make comments on it below. ~