A.D. Winans

 A. D. Winans is a native San Francisco poet, writer, and photographer. He edited and published Second Coming for l7 years. A graduate of San Francisco State University, and a member of PEN. The author of 44 books and chapooks of poetry and prose. Work has appeared internationally, and has been translated into 8 languages. Recent appearances or acceptances: The Other Side Of the Postcard (City Lights Anthology) and the New York Quarerly. Recent books:  The Wrong Side Of Town (Cross Cultural Communications) and This Land Is Not My Land (Presa Press). In 2004 a poem of his was set to music and performed at Tully Hall, NYC. He can be contacted at

POEM FOR JACK MICHELINE

He was the high note of a wailing saxophone

The spark that ignites a fire

He was a fifth of Jack Daniels

A glass of imported beer

A shaman

a vagabond poet

shuffling words like a river boat gambler

Ravished by illness

ravished by time

He painted his visions on canvass

on city streets

In bars and in cafe’s

His poems singing out across the

Streets of America

Pure innocence

pure genius

Spinning words that hung in the air

Like a humming bird drunk on the

Pollen of life

STRETCHING THE IMAGINATION

Ex-barfly

ex-drunk

diminished Don Juan

kissing the pages with my words

No stash graying moustache

watching Larry Curly and Moe

  down at the Last Picture Show

Head gears in reverse

going back in time

pork loin roast and sweet potatoes

roasted on a fire of jazz

here alone tonight

dancing with my nerve ends

feeling like a tightrope walker

walking a high tension wire

POEM FOR AN IMAGINARY DAUGHTER

Daughter that I never had

tugging at my arm sleeve

from deaths still sleep

hanging heavy as an anchor

rooted to the strings of my heart

your vision riding high in the

retina of my third eye

I toss restlessly in half-sleep

a tugboat captain throwing

  you a life line towing

you gently through my dreams

TRYING TO LET GO

a week after Saint Patrick’s Day

you passed away

yet remain in our hearts

half smile half frown

like a drifter walking a ghost town

and I still visit your grave on Mother’s Day

tied to death’s umbilical cord

that will not let me go

knotting itself like a noose tied to my neck

too tight for comfort not loose enough

to set me free

CITY POET

Once addiction sets in

There is no stopping it

You become a serial killer

Attacking the keyboard at will

Your mind working in shifts

Strange creatures live inside your head

Show no mercy give no ground

Forcing your fingers to do their bidding

Writing down your thoughts in your

Loose-leaf notebook

The city is your slaughterhouse

Like a wife it accommodates your moods

Doesn’t seem to mind your giving

Her a bad name

  You walk her streets a hungry vampire

Lapping up your own blood

On nights when blood transfusions

Are not enough