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My Own Personal Witch Doctor
Gerald H. Thomas
MY MEMORY OF 1962, AGE 16,
HANGING OUT IN FRISCO’S NORTH BEACH
DIVES WITH COUNTLESS BEATNIKS
Enough name dropping! Get the picture?
HERE’S THE QUESTION:
Can only a real witch doctor educate the Chinese
in that ancient art of creating the essence needed,
for mere wisps of authentic ham sandwich-ness?
* * * * *
As hayseed Pablum child,
my wisdom exploded into fear,
terrorized by Urban Pigs,
in squealing squad car squalor.
A tiny tattooed toddler, now newborn creep,
boasting fresh-etched Lyle Tuttle scars,
yearning for more hypnotism
by my very own private witch doctor,
happily following into his frenzied exile,
sharing sweet drugged confusion,
blissful bedlam, vacant mystic dreams
shimmering out of control,
with only a single rule: “No Sleeping!”
And so at night,
when tourists’ wobbly legs
abandon our sidewalks,
we slink into Mike’s Pool Hall,
protected by my very own druggist witch,
my personal witch cynic,
blessed witch of thieves,
greedy dope fiend witch,
the invisible witch of laziness, and most of all,
my master of synthetic smiles!!
He is purveyor of dime-bag happiness
to seething clans of graceful drug-slut nodders,
forcing me to watch from inside my
self-inflicted itchy haze,
helpless, merely sixteen!
* * * * * *
I can tell from your vibes
you’re not understanding me!!!!!!!!
LISTEN JUST ONE MORE TIME:
Can only a real witch doctor educate the Chinese
in that ancient art of creating the essence needed,
for mere wisps of authentic ham sandwich-ness?
* * * * * *
My nights fill with glowing dime-store junkies
especially in the presence of my Witch Doctor
hustlers hustling hustlers
while Chinese fry cooks hide
in ketchup stained white tee shirts,
flashing lethal knives at Pool Hall sounds,
spewing forth unwritten laws,
eternal rules of every drug infested, cheap-ass
midnight Frisco flop-house pool room:
“No masse shots, no gambling,
no whistling, no coins on felt,”
but most of all: “NO SLEEPING!”
* * * * *
But beware:
With that my own Witch Doctor
pierced by nasty sneers
from anarchist drunken sailors,
brashly assumes his goodbye pose,
bids a masterful adieu,
ever more audacious
in his filthy, greasy overcoat,
cast off mangled Converse All-Stars,
too long strawberry grey witch locks
primed with eternal stench of Dixie Peach Pomade.
He desperately tries to melt
into Frisco’s liberal tourist fog,
leave his 16 year old apprentice
before fresh fireworks begin
and yet another juvenile addict drifts into dreamland
igniting fresh mayhem
in panicked Chinese fry cooks.
* * * * *
My Witch Doctor takes backward baby steps
toward escape.
I have his drugs, he has my money, I follow his cue:
I too must dissolve before our Chinese hosts
vent rage with their lethal knives,
threatening illiterate children of the night
with cold and juicy chaos
just to obliterate all evidence
of authentic ham sandwich-ness!
* * * * *
Your just not paying attention!
The question will give the secret of life,
it’s more important than the De Vinci Code,
And I’m giving it freely to this GIN JOINT CROWD!!
PAY ATTENTION:
Can only a real witch doctor educate the Chinese
in that ancient art of creating the essence needed,
for mere wisps of authentic ham sandwich-ness?
* * * * *
Is it yesterday’s sour French Bread,
is it gooey white mayo,
is it mounds of cold pink iridescent ham,
or is it that heavy thick slice of raw ONION,
which renders pure terror,
forcing Witch Doctor and I to race insanely
out the door, fleeing into Frisco’s clammy night!
* * * * * *
“Hey, kid, I got stuff ‘cross town needs attention,”
he whispers gravely
voice long drained,
his passions parched by eternal paranoia,
then vanishing into vast unknowable night
on his opium scented carpet made of lies,
leaving me alone, hallucinating in drizzling fog,
puking on wet sidewalks, in darting shadows
of his magnificent cheesiness!
* * * * * *
But I survived, I always survived,
knowing that next time
at Mike’s Pool Hall
might be my last!
The Chinese knew me:
Satanic Baby Witch Apprentice,
gonzo teenage voodoo child,
street punk panhandling thief extraordinaire,
and most of all, their spiritual beatnik poet boy,
ever tight with Witch Doctor,
his loyal trusted artisan, chemically relaxed
while my sorcerer made fresh vampire rounds,
casting his demented spells on
hollow-eyed pasty thugs, fresh fodder
for Mike’s Pool Hall.
So I sat alone
with no fear of fry cook’s lethal knives,
totally consumed by blissful intoxication,
laid back mellow mainline cozy intoxication!
Like a slowly building storm,
my joyous haze grew crystal clear:
Like . . . you know, like . . . .
no matter what the fry cooks did or said,
no matter how long their violence reined,
I could see that . . .you know like . . . that it’s like . . .
like, you know . . . like . . .
it comes from NOWHERE, and
like, . . . you know . . . see, it’s like
GOING NOWHERE!
‘Cause it’s just a fuckin’ ham sandwich, Baybee!
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