Tad Wojnicki: Boutique Row

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Cannery Row is shop-crazy. I skip the trinketry, chocolatery, and gadgetry, and then hop past the batikry, crotchetry, and towelry. A far cry from John Steinbeck. I schlep on. Now, Steinbeck arrives: Steinbeck Golf, Steinbeck Cooking College, and Steinbeck Fold and Fluff. Of course, also a Steinbeck Speakeasy—Steinbeck here, Steinbeck there, Steinbeck everywhere.

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I schlep down Cannery Row.

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I don't see a single cannery, much less a row, or hear the famous, ear-splitting whistle calling the fish cutters, staggering out of their tortilla flats. Years ago, by this time of day, all boats would have been in. The stinko gulch would be swarming with minimum-pay workers, Dead fish would make it alive. But today, the fish is gone. Fished out. With the fish, that life is gone, too—no warehouses, no whorehouses, no flophouses. No “reduction” plants around either, baking fish heads, tails, and guts into a fertilizer. When they cleaned the tanks, "the stench was so horrible it would wake one up in the night," Joe Bragdon, who lived here as a young man, told me. Today, no whistles, no stench, no canners --and no fish to can, either. Cannery Row is now a Boutique Row. Sale signs go up left and right. Staffs drag schlock to the sidewalk to trip the walker.

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antiques shop

in snakeskin shoes

a shiny penny

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I gulp my gall and join the fun. Fog helps, cottoning rough stuff, fuzzing strife, padding junk. Even the roars and vrooms get muffled, stifled, smothered. Soles smooth sidewalks to sumptuous breakfasts of coffee with bacon, waffles with shrimp, and croissants with chorizo, all treyf stuff.

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I step into a joint that doesn't reek treyf. It's the Steinbeck Speakeasy. They serve dinner for breakfast. I don’t want anything to eat. No chow, just spirits. I plop down at the bar and get a shot of kosher vodka straight. The barfly next to me is a Kentucky businessman dispossessed by his wife.

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beach bar

fog engulfs

each stool

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"Headlights on!" a man at the door yells, tilting his head toward the parking lot. "Who drives a Porsche?" he adds, looking around. No guest is getting up. No one drinking at the bar drives a Porsche.

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"Our dishwasher," the bartender yells back.

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The barfly leans over.

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"Don't you miss the good old days?” he asks.

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“What ‘good old days’? Days of low pay? Days of indignity? Days of filth, stink, and discomfort? Were those days ‘good days,’ you think?” "I'm not so sure they were," I recall Joe Bragdon, thinking back.

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weedy wave

the pelican picks

the splash

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I quit the Steinbeck Speakeasy and join a wedding party at the Lover's Point. Gooseflesh dads and teeth-chattering moms join too, praying the fog would lift. A stretch limo pulls over. The bride gets out, breast-feeding a baby. Suddenly, so honest. So Steinbeck. So Cannery Row.

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pebbles rattle

crushed under driftwood

beach wedding

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by Tad Wojnicki

US/Taiwan

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[Previously published as: "Boutique Row: Idiosyncratic Reflections of a Steinbeck Aficionado," in: 2008 NCUE Third Annual Conference on Language Teaching, Literature, Linguistics, Translation, and Interpretation. Chang Hua, Taiwan, 2008.]

Tad Wojnicki: ANGELS BY THE SEA

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Living in Poland was hell. But come Christmas, heavens broke loose. Everybody sang, drank, vowing to right wrongs, forget old hurts, wishing all well. An empty chair waited for a stranger. Even a Jew, like myself. After all, the stranger might be an angel.
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lotsa blinking bulbs
one flickering candle
– hanukkah

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My first Christmas in Carmel, I hit the beach. I tread over "LOVE" scratched with toes. Cottages elbow the sand, Christmas trees in their windows. Peeking in, I look for an empty chair, but I get shy. Hiding in the dark, I see strangers. They are hiding, too. I watch them watching me watching them. Christmas trees stand by like much-decorated despots, guarding the happy against the unhappy.

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holiday giving
waves wipe vows

written in sand

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by Tad Wojnicki

Hsinchu, Taiwan
first published in Rainbow Curve 5, 2005

Tad Wojnicki: CALIFORNIA LIES

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California lies lifeless and naked, shivering in heat. No rain has fallen in years. News crews grill elders who can't think of such thirst, when fields and hills stripped to the buff, and bared it all, bad in heat. Live oaks shrink, shrivel, and stone to save sap, holding onto the ghost of ooze for dear life. Wild oats dry into nuggets, their false gold shimmying, and shrubs fling forth their fangs, having lost their leaves to the heat.
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windswept slopes
creak of dead wood

live oak

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by Tad Wojnicki

Hsinchu, Taiwan
first published in Poetry Midwest 9, Winter 2004

Tad Wojnicki: WHERE TALES WORTH A PULITZER GO FOR A DRINK

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Breezes pick up beach sand, palm fronds, and food-wrappings, smashing them against the walls, poles and billboards. Drivers roll up windows, attacked by tumbling seaweed. Grills blow empty. Ashes sweep drives. Mouths go dry.
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not even sweets
without a grain of salt
wharf café

I park at the Fisherman's Wharf, sucking in the fresh stink of the harbor, dash by the Custom House, built in 1848, and go down Alvarado Street, historically full of watering holes. They shoot breeze here. Best street to connect on the gut level -- and John Steinbeck knew it. His ghost is still wherever they shoot breeze. At midnight, the fishing boats throttle into the sea. It’s time to go. Too drunk to drive, I grope with my feet back into my four walls to hole up, trying to write my guts out.

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fishing village
stink of the diesel
in the wine glass


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by Tad Wojnicki
Hsinchu City, Taiwan
first published in Simply Haiku, Fall 2004

Tad Wojnicki: GETTING THE JOKE

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In the Salinas Valley rivers go upside down, seasons come backwards, and folks first grow old and then turn young.

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Fools rush in.

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But killer airs hit, thwarting all growth. The valley lies lifeless, shivering in icy sunshine. We drive past gray heads of baby lettuce. Other times, the Salinas River, usually a dusty playground, turns into a roaring brute, crushing cattle, breaking barns, and drowning the fools.
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on the road kill
a chicken hawk swoops
deep fall

by Tad Wojnicki
Hsinchu City, Taiwan

Tad Wojnicki: MOAN TRAIL

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In Monterey , or "Moan Trail," as jokers quip, seals moan in the Fisherman's Wharf. Living close, I hear it through the wall. At midnight, it breaks my heart, and I bolt out of bed. I breathe the brine, rot, and diesel watching the fishing boats steal out like Christmas trees without the gifts.
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wharf wind –
oyster shells
pried open

squatty boats
garland bulbs
what if fish spoke?

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Under the public deck, the Wharf has a stinky, barnacled deck for the crews. Seals like the deck. The salts throw them heads and tails. They roll in dung, crying love. I hear yelps of kicked curs, groans of kneaded muscles, whimpers of delight, snickers of pleasure. They cuddle, wrapping necks, flapping fins, knocking off. The brine washes gaping wounds. Each cackle, sigh, and moan drives me nuts. Often, I hear my lover coming, making me moan. I cringe at the show, yet I stay. Neighbors are drawn to bedroom noises.

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after moaning
listening to
the heartbeat

mist soakes me
did it think
I was on fire?

Sometimes I hang out till morning, shunning my bed. "Why did she leave me?" I puff. Falling off my feet, I fail to quit. I watch the surf hugging the barnacled pillars. I thud the empty deck, full of moans, waiting for the boats. What gift do I expect? Other life?

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When I finally head for the Squid Row Cafe, the other life already burdens the boards, hugged by crushed ice -- blushing crabs, thigh-sized bonitos, every rainbowing thing. The wharf grows gray with fish scales.

fish market
in cod’s eye
sun rises

drizzly dawn
moans fade out
into idle chat

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by Tad Wojnicki
Hsinchu City, Taiwan
first published in Tattoo Highway, #9