Mission Street – Clara Hsu

Watcha Lookin At?

Where do I put my eyes? In my pocket? Is the acceptable manner to look away stone-faced, pretending the other’s presence don’t exist? The only friend is the one on your cell phone. The rest of the world, horseshit. And when horseshit gazes at you absentmindedly while waiting for the 54 bus at a lonely stop you snap “What the FUCK are you lookin at?”

I’m back in the United States—California—San Francisco—the Excelsior—home. My wandering eyes need to be restrained, my heart needs to turn cold and my smile tuck away. I’m in the city of wind where the air can explode if I’m not careful and the story of a friend dodging bullets on Mission Street I carry it in my mind. Home is a place that no one needs to say welcome. Home is a place where you help yourself. Home is a place where in your loneliness and fury strike out at your fellow inhabitant. It is true, I’m home.

Tithes For Poets

A friend once remarked that poetry reading is the best entertainment in town because it is free. I’m finding out that may only be the case in San Francisco. In the East Bay and Marin County, a collection is usually encouraged so that the featured poet will walk away with some gas money. When I went to New York last summer all readings there charged a cover.

When Marc Kockinos came to San Francisco he was shocked that poets receive no compensation when they feature at readings. The giving spirit is worthy of praise, but aren’t poets, like all artists, deserve some material recognition? Marc started a weekly reading at Om Shan Tea, a venue at 14th Street and Mission. At the beginning of each reading he kindly reminds people to contribute. “Give as you would like to be given.” The featured poet also receives complimentary tea and meal on the house.

Small gestures can have big impact. I think it does begin with ourselves. Even though we read for reading’s sake, the world has to remember poets pay rent and food just like everyone else.

Photo by Ella Seneres

The #11 Bus

Stick shift and bad back do not make good bedfellows. But I’m the kind of person who likes to sit in front of the computer until the last minute and then dashes out the door. When I am forced to abandon my “third leg” because of back spasms I have to reevaluate my priorities.

The world has always been what it is. Only when I enter it at a different portal do I notice new things like fresh air, the fog, the wind, sunshine, the moon and the rhythm of my heart. As a poet I write about these elements often enough. But they are through the imagination and not so much the body. Taking the bus I find an entire community of its own as we rub shoulders and smell each other’s odor and listen to each other’s conversation. A long walk navigating between people and animals, observing the glorious old cinemas that have deteriorated into garages and sundry stores on Mission Street, I find my slowing metabolism speeds up. It is all good. #11, as we call legs, is the bus I’m taking these days. Unlike Muni, I can depend on them.