Tell Myles I sent you

 

I was staying at the Adelaide Hostel in Isadora Duncan Lane, San Francisco. A fellow I met there said, ‘lets have a drink down near the Tenderloin District, famous in the old days for its butcher ways. In a bar as dark as midnight, the owner said, ‘go down to Green Street to O’Reilly’s, and say hello to Myles the owner. I’ll tell him your coming. Go on Irish night’. It was on Green Street near Columbus Avenue, and Kerouac paradise. I arrived around 8 o’clock, and said to the barmaid, ‘is Myles around?’ The place came alive as people crowded in. The barman was serving beers and playing his fiddle at the same time. The joint was jumping. Myles said, ‘put your money in your pocket, the beers are on the house’. People came up to me and said, ‘your that Australian poet’. I met a fellow who knew Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, and Gurdjieff’s great grandson. A girl quoted ‘writing down the bones’. The night rolled on like a carousel as I drank to Jack, Allen, Corso, Burroughs, Snyder, and every other fucker. By the end, the band played Waltzing Matilda, and I sang like a wounded bear as the night waned into morning. Yes Australians, head to O’Reilly’s, and tell Myles I sent you.

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