In 1965 I was in Boston working a minimum wage job as a toy packer after dropping out of law school. I was writing my first poems (truly awful shit), waiting to be drafted, not knowing if I would become soldier or fugitive (I was both, but that is another story, in no way connected to Berkeley). I landed in San Francisco in 1968, was not exactly greeted warmly—I was fresh out of the army, stints in Korea and Texas—I did not look like one of those gentle folk with flowers in my hair. Closest I can come to any 60s Berkeley connection is 1969, City Lights basement. I "discovered" the world of little magazines, sent out my first poems. Kell Robertson's Desperado, Bukowski's Laugh Literary And Man The Humping Guns, Hitchcock's Kayak, John Simon's Aldebaren Review. At the same time I was taking what would be Lew Welch's last workshop at Cal Extension (before disappearing into the Sierra, where I now live). Over beer at the Log Cabin on Upper Market in San Francisco Lew raved about a Marilyn Monroe poem I'd written. He said two things about my work: I should get the poems out to the magazines; I should think about writing prose. I heard on the submissions within a week, but it took me over 20 years to settle into the prose. One October night walking back through the underbelly of the city after Lew's class, I saw Jack Kerouac's face staring at me from an early edition of the Chronicle. He was dead. Within a week I had poems accepted at Desperado and Laugh Literary. Simon took one later. My first poem to see print was the Marilyn Monroe poem in Desperado. Later Alta republished it in an anthology. That's about it for my Berkeley connection. Of course I visited the wonderful bookstores . . .

I suppose it is curious, the first "living poets" to say yes to my stuff, thrown in there with a soon to be dead or disappeared Lew Welch and a dead Kerouac in the Chronicle. When I was in Boston trying to "become" a poet I actually drove toward Lowell thinking Jack would invite me in, offer me a glass of wine. I was so green at everything I could not even find Lowell, let alone Jack's house. Curious that the Bukowski and Robertson acceptance letters (glowing stuff, asking to see more), Lew's liking my Marilyn poem, Kerouac dying (I loved his stuff at the time), all these things happened around the same time, and there had been nothing even remotely resembling that YES every young writer craves . . .

I worked for the PO a year in San Francisco when I was waiting to exit the army from Fort Hood in Killeen, Texas, 1968 I saw a thing on the news showing "hippie" mailmen smoking pot and walking up and down the street smiling and said shit I can do that. Lew Welch's first words to his last workshop: if this workshop is good for anything, it will show you that you don't ever need to take another class if you want to write poetry . . .