Back in 1992, my book of poems Finding Oakland was published by White Plume Press, Seattle. I’ve never shared the poems from that effort here, because my galleys were lost when I moved to my present home in 2000. But I recently borrowed a copy from a family member, and I’m scanning and retyping the poems.

So, if anyone is still reading this blog – my stats say there may still be a few of you – we’re off on an occasional retrospective. It seems like it might be edifying to do a little emotional archeology, maybe write some new poems on old themes. Maybe I’ve changed, growing into middle age. Probably not. Regardless, it’s definitely time to reassess, learn from failures.

One funny thing about the book, it sold for about four bucks a pop. That seemed like money at the time. If you’d like to see the original cover art, title and publication pages, here you are.

One funny thing about this poem is that in the original, I misspelled Rankolnikov as Raskolniov, and it slipped past me and the publisher, and everyone who has read the book, as far as I know. Guess I’d been reading a little Dostoevsky at the time. And the New Testament. The epigraph from Jack Kerouac’s On The Road was used with permission of Viking Penguin.

Finding Oakland

“because here we were dealing with the pit
and prune juice of poor beat life itself
in the god awful streets of man”
Kerouac

In my heart, I have come back to
San Francisco, which sprung up
on the edge like a condemned man’s
last meal, where patience and action
are futile. I have come to kneel
where only prayer is valid.

In the Steinhart Aquarium, my brother
longed to swim in the cool peace.
In a dream I saw him on the BART,
plunge beneath the bay, searching
for water. But he rose up,
finding Oakland. He stepped
from the train, saying “we are
like men who have lost their legs.”

In a dream, I saw him walking
south on Mission Street, turning
into an alley and a dark pawnshop.
Like poor Raskolnikov, the price
Was just too high. The fog
lingered about the hills, anointing
the housetops, hanging from street lights.

Then Jesus rose up through the steam
in the street, parting the traffic,
leveling light on everything.
Dragging the curtain torn in two.
An Army of angels marched
down from Bolinas,
swinging the broken chains.

— Kyle Kimberlin, 1992
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