(being a riff upon a staple food item
& a weekend surf contest down south)
Baked bean: forgot hat at surf fiesta, cole porter,
Banks of the river charles, pork, to get beaned,
Verb transitive and intransitive, white male juvenile,
Bricks, dogs, g.b. & beans, farts, toots, let’s
Do it, ketchup, Warhol wouldn’t touch, beans in
Passageways, the bean race, they slanted into the
Wind, the crowd oo-ed, it was all a parable
Of socialism, red-faced, tired of papas & beer
I trekked the back streets of rosadustarito in
The fading light, made it to the beach as it got
Dark and they started to run the horses, had
Good seafood with some cheap brand of crinkle
Cut fries, beer, fucking cerveza, mon, the
Pope, westerns, assassinations, keep them doggies
Rollin, ivy for some reason league sweaters,
Also poor swobbies, scabbies and fisher kings,
Families stranded in florida, the who sell out,
Ann-margaret is memorable by being forgettable,
My father the gourmet added a couple whacks of
The palm on the bottom of the katsup bottle while
The were still cooking, then read the paper as
He ate them, even my mother could cook them,
Rain, secret life, spam, redneck picnics, an
Evil spirit is re-released into the world with
Each passing of wind and soon goes unnoticed,
Franks, onions, green pepper, pepper, Worcestershire
Sauce, one upping the old man, I put the gb in
While they were still cooking, they’re too easy,
They roll around but stick together, it’s
One of the greatest conspiracies, open the tin,
Put them in the pan, check out the alley, how
Come you dance so good, buck teeth, big two
Heart, get out of here with your half-baked,
Shake before baking, there were rocks in the
Water, the sand was dark, there was a dusty
Area behind, tents like a bean cut in half,
A superstar rv rig or two, industrial speed
Bumps coming into ensenada who art in, open
motel back curtain and there’s a bullring!,
a floor up you could spectate, the next night
I was over there, making myself dizzy,
Jack the rip liked ‘is with mash, there were
The master exhibitionists the kids and the
Tweeners, like writers they work hard to make
It look easy, 15 minute heats, I declined
An invite to be one of the few duds, they
Played strictly oldies, roadhouse blues &
LA woman both days, it’s a matter of sauce,
To an extent, over the bridge and down gaffey,
Brecht came through, the war, the depression,
Cabbies, ballplayers, even bigots, the
Lincoln tunnel, jail, the group theater,
The theory of language, stockhausen,
I & thou, attorneys at law, the coon skin
Cap, 50 minutes to relive childhood,
With dog wrapped in bacon.
Chris Daly is an olde school literary bum who has published in various magazines and journals, some of them long gone. His first job was at the Colonial Inn, North Miami Beach, large resort motel, a skinny sixteen year old working with recently arrived short bull-like Cuban bus “boys” who carried heavy trays of dishes like they were pizzas; uneducated but sophisticated, they took care of the author, gave him pitchers of water to walk around with.
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