 This is really real Crystal in the night sky last night of September flashing blue Flashing green crystal in the night sky moves double speed of stars flashing gold flashing red Crystal in the night sky four times of star to I this is really real This is really real This is here to heal All the facets of its being are in each and all of us refraction interaction upon each and all of us Crystal in the night sky, this is really real This is here to heal The book called Desert Journal and I wrote it from about 61 to 68 and it's 40 days in the desert And good gay poets in 77 finally published it and what I do I have the audience call a number from 1 through 40 So I want two numbers and that's the ones I'll read Three Wait a minute too many now three somebody did say seven no Seven three seven thirty nine and what was because with four we're gonna have that in the next second So we'll have three and seven now And we'll have the other two in the next set okay Third day It is wet It is cold Each step causes a ravine The only way to be the shiver within the flood is to become one with the stream No, not one with the stream to be the stream Not to scream to be the scream From so deep within that even the word source is lost To its cause Thus to cause the source Sour sauce sour sauce Marinate this life without seeming cause Vices lost it sharp sharp has lost its spice Vice has lost it sharp harp has Lost its string String has lost its wing Harp has lost its spring Spring has lost its sing wing has lost its bird bird has lost its turd vice has lost its spice and And turd on the third day hope as spice the night night has lost its fight to be the one Unknown want to be a sown the seed the need Only some bird still has the turd too Only one who will still scream Not still the scream The still in the Ozark hill where the government man goes in all directions Not having his own direction unable to ask only to question Only a lone coyote in flight from beast in his image in flight from man who flies from his scream In flight from man who will only hear the cry of too many birds falling turds calling time Only one who will still scream one who wouldn't even consider the government man less than those who possess and consider direction of importance Only one who Still scream one who wouldn't even consider the government man less than those who possess and consider direction of importance This is the wind The wind could be considered the wind could be considered strong. This is the hill. I cannot talk about It's a hill a hill a hill not a cliff not a cliff at all nothing a Strong as that just a hill against the wind It was here ten years ago that or ten million a way of saying time which always resists the saying of it Is this the table we are not ready It hurts It hurts It hurts so much to be said and nothing Coyote dies a sunset in flight from beast in his image in flight for man who flies from his scream in flight for man Who will only hear the cry of too many birds falling turds calling time a Red dog named Zimzum Brings home a coyote who sees the sunrise and dies Red scum Indian Sun no are in May June July August So the sea demands its S But a coyote with a capital S is brought back to life in May at sunrise by a red dog named Zimzum who One year later or one million a way of saying time which always resists The saying of it Stares into the sunset in August every night Before dying last time Seventh day where is Hawaii What is Hawaii a sound of wave against wave slapping Where the wood grows grows sand and foam Mother and father illusion to see illusion of ocean a sound of wave against wave slapping Kahlua one quart brandy one pint boiling water two cups unrefined sugar two ounces instant coffee One whole vanilla bean Mixed sugar and coffee ad boiling water dissolve. I Must acknowledge the fact that nothing is permanent Let cool add brandy store in dark place. I got your backwards in my mind Tie a string to vanilla bean and drop a Sound of wave against slapping remove after 30 days a sound of wave against wave slapping and All the old doors were open until I tried them But if old in his sweet hearts with young faces and old hearts brush their dusty Tales on ground floors find dust like fuck and God and metaphysical and right and wrong and all the other Dangerous words the maker floor saw dust like sand Fine like desert sand Where is Hawaii? What is Hawaii? Where is the archangel where is Satan? Conversing no doubt deep in conversation each to the other each is the other Each to the other each is the other No doubt paisley no pictures, please Just now a face. I knew but no on the journey the same faces over and over Now to go behind the face one's own face and on the seventh day the darkness saw itself What is the question she said and died What's the question she said and died the stranger behind the face one's own face Smirks Don't you know you've changed still at the old doors And on The seventh day a clown turned mute to play his flute The einsamkeit is known to say no need to mine so cuts to overall in a boost and sign Solitude is need but be not mean. Thus you be anywhere as in a desert face The face know the face And know the face Solitude is need but do not stoop to greed. Thus you be in all places and know the face that all Faces and know the face that is all faces Solitude is need Solitude is need And on the seventh day the toe of the foot of the leg struck sand cast shadow of the dark archer And on the seventh day All right New York City Not so light in August a knock on my door It's Jerry not heard from in a year with a bag of grapes and a fever in her hand Let's go to New Orleans. My palms turn up. Nothing. You see she weighs her five spot or five dollar bill Blashes a diamond engagement ring. We can hot this when we get there. She's got a fever. All right. It's Catching I've got to store all that I point to the books RJ has a studio on 3rd Avenue, New Houston Street We step over empty wine bottles and someone asleep in the doorway climb up to the loft a Bit black cat RJ. He really is he's not his mattress fully closed a Chessie smile Sketches all over the floor the L rattles by the sketches lift and settle What's up? Who's your friend? Going to New Orleans need to store my stuff in August you crazy girl Got nothing in New York You can always move in here friends a friend and there's always a pot on the stove Help me bring my boxes over Get someone else for that. I ain't moving You're the laziest mother in town, right? But who gets the commissions? You dream him up, huh? We got it girl eight months later April 1951 I fly back only to Shepard all to Chicago the boxes are where I left them RJ Is on his mattress Fully closed a Chessie smile sketches all over the floor not the same ones Where's your friend back in Chicago and you I? Like New Orleans my rent is $15 a month How come green here? That's another story What do you do in New Orleans? I ride on the back of the street car the one named desire I always thought you black 1952 light waves in August he makes mirage August on the road again the road going West San Francisco rises out of the fog a city in gauze My last ride drops me a Broadway in Columbus North Beach said this is where you belong right on San Francisco I'm home a walking city up and down steps Vienna not quite a pain here and there enough is not a travel off Crash it's 5 a.m. The garbage truck. Oh, no. I'm right on the alley the garbage truck twice a week enough I Call the landlord any other room Well, there's one upstairs. You better take a look at it It's a closet with a light well ten dollars a month great that fits my finances a shower on the roof Yay size of a phone booth Steam of the shower night fog the ferry building clock is my timepiece a fine view of the Bay Bridge This is the time before the freeway years later an earthquake crashed Typewriter rattling on the boxes writing the blues and other colors. Where's the jazz? I Walk from North Beach to Fillmore. I were black. I Always wear black melt into the night Bright light jimbos Bob city jazz due to 6 a.m. What a jam Jumbo I don't have a dollar you don't have one dollar. I'm running a business. All right going in the next time Next time jump. Oh, I listen girl grab a tray. No wages, but there's tips only near beer you hear Stan Willis the wild man and genius is a rare thing Jones and keys and singing Cowboy and trumpet picking a note here and there at the back of the stage always Steven rocking in on his limp Fingers cradle the base. These are these are my touch points smoking buddies Stan knows where pianos live enters the home where pianos wait for him a soft smile. Hello Not another word sits down and plays and plays leaves No doors ever locked to him where piano lives Stan gives me his record. Maybe his first rights on it for Ruth who is in time to tame the universe Cowboy looks the same 40 years later as he blows behind me at an oak Street session It is in Stevens pad. I first here night in Tunisia Well-known names drop in from gigs at the black hall from other clubs 2 a.m. Soul food a rib here or if they're the joint is jumping There are girlfriends and paid girlfriends the paid girlfriends with more manners Sparkles the wheel round and round the dealing. It's a scene man Ever so often a quiet face tuned in 6 a.m. Bob City closes half a block away Jackson's note a counter a room small and dark in the back The wanton so delicate the coffee strong Delicate and strong mr. Jackson tall light skin his hair gray and curly an ageless face His children behave here. This is a listening place One by one the ones who must play enter the search for that note that only one It's a jam for the heartbeat No feet tapping no hands clapping. I walk slow through daybreak blue back to North Beach My lids hold around my whole being Wendy is her own grandmother She makes a grandmother doll just so people can tell them apart But the doll is a part of herself and bigger than she is Wendy's tiny Grin that circles the earth with a grin that circles the earth with a grin and easy tears The keeper flew it on the path She travels With her grandmother and her back Who else could tell me how to make mashed potatoes and walk soft? On the hard road ahead Elaine Elaine and the Elphin boys Knee high and cypress Her hand on a limb her face and a flower the footprint that only the deer can tell The clay bowl she just made Under the huckleberries filling with huckleberries Dropping on their own under the huckleberries filling with huckleberries dropping on their own Elaine is looking up Find this guy. She says her voice tuning a spider web listening in the sun Bonnie it's five past the meridian hour your lake body says we have to be back in time We enter a trailer But today it's a plane a two-seater with one propeller. It's all a matter of balance one propeller two seats for three Her hands are on the controls in and out of the clouds Her hands touch points on the meridian The great circle of the earth passing through the poles the great circle of the celestial sphere The great circle of the human body And we land on a great stump of a redwood a great great great grandmother of a redwood This is the tree where he was given to be shaman This is the tree where he married This is the tree where he was I body says The tree is gone, but the spirit lives on it doesn't hurt so much once you know that Now if we go and touch the park and feel the circle around the stump the great circle of the earth Passings for the poles the great circle of the celestial sphere the great circle of the human body And out we go to a grove of redwood dancing Limbs out every which way to billowing bars of fall away crashes and again Then we're off and back again, and oh do we feel great the whole body the body hold We're back in time Bonnie says Flying is to see how big the earth is and how small Hill Haven several buildings and many rooms between 19th Street and Cumberland Millie is the landlady married to Johnny Elgin a piano player. I knew in New Orleans in 1950 Hill Haven becomes Haven for jazz Jamming in the boiler room Johnny Elgin on piano Sonny Mel nelson or Will Carlson on drums Actor John Atkins just listening in all then living at Hill Haven Maybe Jack Minger or Dickie Mills dropping with trumpet or Max Hartstein with bass or brew more on tenor White skin black and blue sounds. I live at the Wendley and poking Sutter are the voices of the rooms But often cross San Francisco join in the jam Words into smoke notes into fire Will and Sonny and Jack opened the cellar a jazz joint on Green Street in North Beach a Wednesday first night of poetry and jazz at the cellar my first time in public with poetry and jazz Other nights. I carry beer and wine to the tables, but this is Wednesday An hour or so before the show. I'm at the bar my glass shaking in my hand John Atkins comes in ready to work the door. His arm is around my shoulder Don't ever put yourself down. Don't ever allow anyone to put you down. He says Don't ever allow anyone to put you down Another Wednesday, I walk in ready to gig someone's on piano not the soft blue of bill we John It's blue. All right electric blue sparks and the blue flames Who are you? I whisper blue pleasant. She laughs never missing a note I jump in and off we go the drum and the bass from behind us and little Malcolm on Trombone and another horn what a set what a night Boo pleasant was on the scene for a short time only lean and tall and black Hovering over the keys that talk before she touched them how she unlocked those sounds The keys to her life were a different story her lover at the time a married man whose wife was not about to let him go Boo in an auto crash scarred her goddess face never saw her again. She left for New York Many years later. She played in Oakland who only heard about it a few weeks after she left never saw her again a Sun break through the cloud smile on his earth-colored face John handy He puts his lips to his alto sax wings soar beyond human perception Then all becomes visible John first thought to be a painter realized his media in music instead Is that why his sounds hit me so deep? Most of those close to me are sculptors painters my words carry pictures Our eyes meet quickened into a smile in a club on the street, San Francisco in the late 50s through the early 60s And one day in 65 John is in my North Beach pad Talks with the night about the sheer cliff the slippery rock how to go on 1967 Whirling goodbye to San Francisco Paul and I stop at the both end of the visit arrow to hear John at the break He joins our table. I'm moving to Los Angeles to live with Paul. I tell him. He's in a jazz. He's an artist John opens the next set with a tune meant for us We meet again in 71. We've been back two years and yes Paul and I are together and doing art In Los Angeles, I work with a bass player bent for our Matthews a friend of Paul's lives in Topanga Now I'm playing with a Koto player Michiko Michiko Kimura moved here from Japan started the Koto when she was four they start early in Japan Funny how working and playing means the same thing to musicians Johnny's smiling and he shows that she improvised We were at the arts festival this year later at the exploratorium the arts festival featured Oriental performers. We should been there. What a date was hot. I can imagine I mean the weather we need a place to warm up. You said it was hot. Come on, John Let me go on. I saw this crate a large wooden box Don't know what it was for. I asked if we could use it to prepare We had half an hour before our turn so we're helped in Koto and all were both small and they closed it There was enough air through the slats Michiko starts to pluck the strings according to strict tradition and she had done it rehearsals Then I flashed on a change to loosen her up. I light up a joint She doesn't partake but she gets contact and I'm making these sounds crazy on the scale lots of vowels I've done this with Ben and even before that and Michiko. Let's go with notes. She didn't know existed We're ready, but how do we get out? I knock at the box. I knock on the box. No answer I knock again harder. Someone lifts the lid not the one who helped us in he was somewhere else And I hadn't told anyone about us And this cat who lifts the lid says I heard these weird sounds didn't know where they were coming from What are you doing in there? Just help us out. I say we have to be on stage and run right into where we had left off There was quite a crowd and my mother was there with Paul. He was wandering around looking at exhibits when he saw her She had no idea was performing that day. I Didn't know yet such a voice. She said I'd like to meet Michiko John says I'm putting a band together with women musicians a rainbow band all colors and Michiko joined but not for long. She married a man from Japan Michiko did not play in public again. Not with John not with me 1981 Paul and I moved north to Inverness survived the flood of 82 Dig our way out of the mud move further north to Albion Not seen John in years and one of our trips to San Francisco 84 85 We see he's at milestones a new club and fifth near Harrison build with Frank Morgan also an alto Frank Morgan his recent comeback from years behind walls, but the music never stopped the muse keeping the walls from closing in We park the wheels just missed broken glass garbage here garbage there no one in sight We walk a block down the dim street and go in It's between sets soft lights tan walls black wood the hum of Conversation and warm laughter clink of icing glasses men in suit and tie the women's jewelry reflecting light black and tan and white a Couple rises to leave and we get their table an eye contact John handy a smile a hug few words The next set is about to start Soft into a tune the rhythm is steady one horn starts then the other Tagging up and up playing free a scent of the past a streak of sad Breaks into rainbows no more walls glint of feathers in the sun a tickle of feathers I fall into laughter through tears Okay, I'll tell them So often to a tune the rhythm is steady one horn starts then the other tagging up and up Playing free a scent of the past a streak of sad breaks into rainbows no more walls Glint of feathers in the sun a tickle of feathers. I fall into laughter through tears. Thank you that So those who I Have stayed over from the first set and those who've just come in and are still going to catch a full set Welcome and I'm Ruth Weiss and Doug O'Connor will be on in a minute and I think this I'm going to just read On my own and then I'm gonna Invite Doug to join me. So here it goes. This is part of my story I always thought you black which goes on and on on this is an excerpt a Story haunts me a courtyard in a monastery a man is sweeping Day after day year after year through the corridors through the halls through the rooms He was a boy when he arrived now. He's an old man. The other monks studied books Meditated went up in rank became adepts, but this one swept with a smile from inside out Lighting up the dark corners One day he dies. No bells only a chorus of angels Walk in North Beach in the 60s in the 70s along diagonal Columbus up Grand Avenue At one of the storefronts or one of the bars Calvin is washing windows Calvin Gilbert a small black man in jeans and sweater a woolen cap over his ears all year round a smile from inside out reflecting in the window Now he sits on a step with his tiny dog Duke small enough to keep in a hotel room Then it started to happen Duke would disappear the smile would disappear the dog and the smile would reappear Only it was another dog This would happen again. No one could tell who stole the dog dog after dog all named Duke one more time Calvin let go he let go of the world of this life at 68 on the 6th of January 1975 Poets and musicians gathered at his wake Jack Hirschman Wayne Miller Eugene Ruggles myself others and Bob Costman Bob Coffman shovels in faces his audience There is silence and he is silent It is the late 50s. He's standing on Grand and green in front of the coexistence bagel shop He's watching a shadow play his shadow in the noonday sun Another shadow the cop on the beat in a stick as it strikes the skull the same cop again and again Stars and angel wings beaten and beaten never beaten black and a Jew or Izzy He says Someone who I am is no one in France known as the black Rambo beat the system be attitude Attitude be a tiffic. Oh terrific battlefield of demons and angels bowed into silence to stop the war 1960 I'm walking past the bagel a poster in the window screaming Carol Chessman a long list of poets below that name Mine too for reading scheduled the next day to help save Chessman to stop capital punishment Who put this together who included me Bobby of course just as he had sparked the attitude in 59 That rag done on a mimeograph hit and miss sold in bar and bookstore I helped sell to fund my daily beer decades later to become a collector's item I 24 hours to write the appropriate and I did and here it is 13 Senu Seed of every crime is in our dreams to blossom water well with blood Revenge is fertile look how only one such act brings one many more Monsters in the clouds all devouring each other yet become yet more Hate begets more hate hates just once passionately learn the churn delight Shock well with all crime the one that will shock you most is yours to nourish Don't forgive ever you might find you on the road of forgiving self Talk sweetly always you will see that all your words bitter in your mouth If no one guilty can be found to take the blame best yet one guiltless Killing this release. So they've said for centuries. Why not a few more? What's a human life razored by all the others blood and own will tell Trap trip trample thrice who will shake the devil's dice. I will you will he Such fun to play God after all he really ain't Kill kill kill kill kill Have stone Rope gas shock We'll do in name of the law to protect revenge Seed of every crime is in our dreams to blossom water well with blood Looks like a rerun now in 1993 Winter of 72 Paul and I are on Grant Avenue and our way to Fagoni the hardware store for paint to redo the Room Freddy Koo has given us in the spaghetti factory for our surprise voyage a Thursday venture into the sphere of the word To open the day after Valentine's Day for the love of poetry Bob is moving towards us the words float by as he passes John Hoffman you spoke of sea a flight of wind sand wheeling to the Sun you marked your time in blue into the Sun Did you hear that he spoke the closing lines of my 1980 book blue and green? He just blessed surprise voyage Paul whispered, but we haven't let anyone know about it yet. I said Calvin's wake Bob moves away from center stage without a word And look set me and look set me as I go on Calvin's wake Bob moves away from center stage without a word and look set me and look set me so I go on Calvin Gilbert a together quiet Cal and his dog Duke watching a world going nowhere Watching a world trapped in speed Who stole the dog again and again each dog named Duke? Who ripped Cal's soul was it a who was it a how was it a where was it a when what was it? It's raining today, but we have to wash our windows to keep up with Cal Cal who sat in the Sun wherever he was because the Sun is inside him wherever he went Cal went with a clean window Cal went with a clean window Bob echoes and Outcome his his poem as it forms a one-man jam from angel breath of holy flame One has to strain to hear and then we're all inside the poem and there is no need to hear Bobby died in 86 going on 61. I wrote Cross your bridge with your big word in your huge silence We can't be friends, but we don't have to be enemies The crab which becomes sorcerer Atlantis reascends in Mars the violence spends itself letting go Only the firebird perched on peak of pyramid beaks still open to soul stars unset wet claws The myths are true as are you whoever they you may be at the moment of telling the teller of them the last one to believe Flash the energy stretches a clown bird destruction to its wing tip wing and whoosh Once any part of that kind of flying The desert is fatigue the desert is all living organism in the face of continual annihilation The desert is all myth and all true as are you whoever the you may be at the moment of telling The teller of them the last one to believe There may be an open door that is really locked There could be a lock on another that is really open Only the desert being vast and slow Fast like so much sand could conjure doors and locks in open space Only the desert where the firebird perched on peak of pyramid Beaks still open to soul stars on set wet claws Fingers from hands clenched yet pointing to black night glistening stars One black dog No owner in sight or out of vision Divisionary black dog only guard not messenger yet is learning to as you who must follow the fingers from hands clenched yet pointing There are no stars left to right wrongs imagined Only the myths are true as are you whoever the you may be at the moment of telling The teller of them the last one We can't be friends, but we don't have to be enemies the crap Which becomes sorcerer Atlantis went down in a wall of water and the fire breeze breeze burning breath sand wife and death One ball The sixth day considers itself a sand mound beyond all others Makes his thought mountain upon mountain The desert considers nothing it is the justice of six points connected and Pushed into shape by whomever wills it The arrow points its direction the arrow finds its mark even if seeming intention is not struck like fuck It happens wherever The weight and the weight in balance where all gathers No guarantee the return no guarantee facts like fuck changing in its veritus The look familiar the look stranger the look familiar the look stranger The look familiar the look stranger Look now one cool look now one cool look now one cool Look a stranger look familiar look a stranger look a familiar Look a stranger Fact, like fuck, changing in its very tuss. The arrow points its direction, the arrow finds its mark, even if seeming intention is not struck. Like fuck, it happens wherever. The desert is fine. It conjures all places. This is considered mirage. Ageless without mirror, it is considered illusion that pure point where all gathers. One dreams of the tree, another of the sea. One dreams of the root, another of the foot. One dreams of the hand, another of the sand that makes its thought mountain upon mountain. The desert considers nothing. It is the justice of six points connected. Weird at one find granite to stone his herd into a shape without guarantee. The archer in the slinger, the parter in the singer, wings of stone. The desert grinds its tone upon the bone of earth. And the sixth day is betwixt creation and the light. Desert considers nothing. It is the justice of six points connected and pushed into shape by whomever wills it. The bright hand and the bare door, the bare hand and the bright door. Africa. Awa ewa, earth mouse fire, tooth out of the river mouse. Eye as sun to sun, sun's how the leopard long before the cow knew what was happening is no need to run. Condemned boang, 13 birds turn, rope is iron, 14 split his wing became king. Kenya, Kayan, tall make raid mark, hollow eyes man like beaker bird inside. Kuduo, sleep the doubled hypnotic eyes shut and open. Eyes that peer below the bear beware. Warega, swords as windmill, swords as horn, beaks to make the turtle turn. Might err on overweights. Two crocodiles, three crocodiles, five upon the wooden gate. Bakongo, the snake is striking, the turtle has no more shell, the bird has seen its egg. That bird, his father duty done, returns to his euphoria tree. A rung sprung from the forehead, brooding beak, casting a shadow ahead. Kissy, if a vulture rides a horse, a snake will flower shrine and chameleons will climb. Five tongues to twist the weary tales to hearers to die laughing. Bazuku, bakota, a pair of birds upon the head, big light and fleet beneath their feet. Benin, all animals man, the mass gives eyes to the back of the head. Yoruba, it let no blue strike two, no mark bear more than it was given. Dogon, as bone is tone, as wood is fire. Dogon, where bent knees, where tied wrists, eyes are knives. Sanufo, the house goes speak. Mambara, antelope woman arrow to the wind, keen to its whistle, bird wind horns through the savannah. Guru, king, queen, warrior in the game. When the hyena dies, none will eat him. Male and female, two yet one, male and female, one yet two. I, monkey, hold the vessel to be filled. I wait for my rider as you wait for your key, dividing key holds after secret, the sealed mouth. As feather and sword, so mouth and seal, what will fill my ball, what will fill my fate? Look deep, look deep as waters speak, rich clay, rich mud, old moon, new flame. The snake told the lizard to meet him at the tadpole, the turtle told the monkey, and the monkey told another, and out of the tadpole came man, came man. Tear, sun, laugh, eye, tear. Tulum! His eyes are closed, I hear a car park, I hear my heart very loud, he opens his eyes filled with tears, then his voice from far away. But that is the story of my village, how do you know this? It was given me. Sometime in 59, the museum in Golden Gate Park, in a small room, low lights, small sculptures from Africa, and masks. I enter, the pieces begin to loom larger and larger, the shadows touching one another, weaving the story. Tell them, Kenyakayan and on, Bakongo, Bakota, Yoruba, Benin, they begin the one story, the story goes on, I'm in the room, the room is gone. Back home, the story in my hand, but not quite, a thread or two missing. On Market Street, a movie house, the teller news, I go there often, not to see the news, but the views of far places. Today, a special from Denmark, Africa, tomorrow it will be gone, the film says, I cry with the colors. The shape of a bird enters the poem, the poem is done, but not the story. 1967, I'm in the Capri, a bar in Grand Avenue, nights a gay carousel, where Mavis beloved, bejeweled Queen Mavis reigns. With tray, tinkling glasses held high over the heads of the crowd, a crowd moving to Motown, and Mavis knows if you're in or you're out. But this is daytime, Mark is behind the bar, he slides me a beer down the bar, where I sit by the window, says, I'm buying the house a drink, we laugh, I'm the only one. We don't mention Roy, my husband, Mark's current roommate. Roy Isbell, my second husband, the sculptor, the junkie, the ex-con. But that's another story, a short one, a long, a long one, from centuries ago. 1967, I'm in the Capri, sun on Grand Avenue, shadows of people passing by. The door opens, a man enters in a suit and tie, in North Beach in the afternoon in a suit and tie. He sits at the bar, orders a scotch, a brand name, buys the bar a drink, Mark and me. We raise our glasses, drink to our silence, a fly is buzzing. A tiger's eye glows on his black hand, would you care for another? The Oxford accent heightens his musical voice. I'm from South Africa with a folk dance troupe, a sort of chaperone you might say. And we talk of London, of Vienna, of Africa. I live near here, I must show you a poem I wrote years ago. He looks at his watch, I have a little more than an hour to be at the theater. My home on Baleo Street, the ground floor of a three-story building. To be torn down soon, don't know when. Meantime it's mine, at $25 a month. No mailbox, no garbage pickup, part of a parking lot. Destined to become the North Beach police station. That too is another story. We enter through the kitchen, a hammock bought in Mexico stretches across the main room. Nice digs he says, settles in the chair by the bookcase. Tea time he says, I'll take some cream, no sugar please. I'm in the poem now, the words sing out, is this my voice? His eyes are closed, I hear a car park, I hear my heart very loud. He opens his eyes filled with tears, then his voice from far away. But that is the story of my village, how do you know this? It was given to me. And slowly removes his tiger eye ring from his finger, places it on mine. This is for you. It will help your work go out. A bridge across continents, this magic ring. I open a book, an edelweiss in its pages. Mutti gave me years ago, I touch its soft fur petals, a mountain star. And this is for you, from the Austrian Alps. Himalia, Himalia, snow mountain he whispers, it is sacred. You must keep it. You have a long climb ahead. It is time for me to go. Long after he's gone, I sit through the night. The ring on one hand, the edelweiss in the other, a glow in the dark. Roy, the second husband, the junkie, the con. Roy stole that ring, knew what it meant. Today I reclaim it in the telling. Thank you. And especially our librarian here. Would you come here and come here. I want to thank you for bringing us here today. And I hope I feel you've enjoyed it as much as we have. And Doug and I will be doing. The next show we're doing is, well, that's out of the city in Sonoma at the community center there, two blocks east of the main plaza in Sonoma. And that's December 4th. But you'll be hearing us again. So I have books and audio tapes and all that for sale. But most of those things are also in the library. So you can take them out if you don't. OK, thanks. Bye-bye. So again, Annette McNair, thank you.