Two hundred and eleven pages of appreciations of Jack Micheline, a “street” poet with “street” cred who wrote pedestrian poems and thought about paintings while walking the street and died on a train from San Francisco to somewhere else. Lovers, buddies, fellow street folks and poets and wannabe poets and artists from both coasts tell us we missed something special and that Jack’s poems lived on the breath and in his harmonica and tambourine and dance, all of which ended with a Bart official trying to wake an old sinner up at the end of the line. This volume makes me want to believe them.

The sad thing is that it’s hard to wax romantic about a toothless old man with a pot gut wearing pee-stained underwear who lives on Dinty Moore soup and warm beer in a flop house. The pictures from Jack’s younger days make you nod your head yes, but Jack with his arm around a pretty young thing in an after-hours bar just makes you feel sorry for someone who’s lived well past his legend even though this chorus of printed voices keeps wailing noooooo! nooooo! noooooooo! he lllllliiiiiivvvvvvveeeesssss forevvvveeerrrrr onnnnnnn! like the winter wind off San Francisco bay.

$14.95 from Vagabond & the Smith. Same contact information as the previous book.