Poet Richard Rubenstein, late husband of Anne R. Dick, with Anne.

Additional short work in Review.

Rafael Film Center with Buddhist Film Foundation celebrated the 20th Anniversary of National Poetry Month in April by showcasing ten films on poetry. The film series included "Conversation" with local grown Gary Snyder and Legend of the Fall author Jim Harrison , Ferlinghetti documentary, and a Robert Bly doc.



LATTÉS, Lunch, Books and mags here! View the Book Passage writer events on their website

51 Tamal Vista Blvd. Corte Madera, CA
 7 days 9 to 9 PM  


142 Throckmorton Theatre

Stage Shows, Music & Comedy

"Uniting our Community through the Power of the Arts"

You can buy tickets or at our box office. Call (415) 383-9600 or stop by 142 Throckmorton Ave Mill Valley, Hours: 2pm-6pm, Mon-Sat


























Don Alberts is more than a Bay Area jazz celeb pianist and composer-he is a marvelous poet.

Don Alberts has received the prestigious 2005-2011,2013 ASCAP Jazz Composers Awards for his Volumes of Original Jazz Compositions.

Don Alberts has established himself as an author with publications including: "The Rushing -Manbaby and the Crooked Road to the Big Time" (2010), a novel about a Jazz Musician's life set in the 1960's San Francisco and "A Diary of the Underdogs" a book on Jazz History in San Francisco in the 1960's with 31 interviews of local musicians. These are available at lulu.com/donalberts , Barnes and Noble, Amazon, Baker and Taylor, Book Baby, Ingram, and Books Inc.





































































































































































































HOME | THE LITERARY LATTÉ—Stories & Poems | ON MY NIGHTSTAND—Books reviewed | REVIEWWriting and more| THE SCENE—News, Events, Resources | SALON—Interviews, Submission, Contacts|The STACKS—Back Issues


Get comfy with a latté, Lapsang souchong, or glass of wine, and let the LITERARY LATTÉ stimulate your intellect and emotions:

Bad Ass Poetry by Don Alberts

 So What About Jazz?

“So, what about jazz?” he said, with kind of a reserved grin, “did you know it, did you feel it, did it hurt you, did it make you cry inside, did it flood you like a river, and did you know it was wide and long, moving inside you like warm thick blood? I’ve been there with the music on cold days and nights, and it made sense to me, gave reason for everything, to the words, to why I’m here.” Then he paused, thinking, and turned… “Do you know jazz?” And I said, “Oh yes,” and as I said it I knew there was more. I could have gone on but he had already asked the question and I was letting myself linger in the melodies of “Flamenco Sketches” and Miles calling out; “I’m Miles Davis,” as he burst through the door into the strip club across the street from the Jazz Workshop on Broadway; like a blat from his horn in mid range, “I’m Miles Davis,” he said, and I said, “Yes you are!” “What’s in here?” he said. “Bitches,” I said. Miles looked around but didn’t answer.

So what about jazz? Did you know it, did you feel it? Sometimes the sound is in the room, the trumpet calling, or maybe he’s just talking to himself, a private lick, a ruffle of notes getting ready for a sparkling string of ascending illumination. And when the drummer has just sliced under a chord before it hits with a crunch and spills the broken pieces across the room and the bass catches with a firm glove and it hangs there while the saxophone breathes edgy wisps as though saying, “I’m here for you,” to the trumpet, and he goes on, and I go on, and I go with him and I go into music breath and I take it in like air and it mixes with my private thinking, my judgment, my tonight and my tomorrow and myself and my friends, and all the songs I know, and the people and the faces and… well, what about jazz?

Well, what about it? I thought about Miles when I went home that night, wherever that was, after I heard his last set. I was inside the music; it was all around me, playing in my ears, and Miles’ voice, “What’s in here?” That high screeching sound he makes with his horn, the thing Gil Evans told him to do. “Keep that black thing up in there!” It was there.  It always has been there, that’s why they call him Miles, “Miles Davis, the man with the horn.”  But he’s much more, he’s a way of thinking, a way of sleeping, a way of traveling down the road, a way of ordering things, a judgment, a justice, a means to compare and evaluate music…jazz music, and you have to say to yourself in slow, even tones, “So what about jazz?”


Bad Ass Poetry

You want bad ass poetry? Not have to think too much-

Not have to think about roses…and broken hearts-

chimneys and smoke…scorn and attitudes…


Just entertain me with humps and bumps…thuds and back beats…

Let me sway in un-caring lunges and clapping.

I was not born to be illicit…or created to mourn...

Not good with evil and sadness…much better with time and madness…

love’s madness and ecstatic…hypnotics…

 and bad ass poetry…So…


Send me on with your words…fire my arrows for me…

Tingle me with tantalizing romanticizing…

Let the beat fill me…

And thrill me…

And tell me…how great I am…and


Bad Ass…and high class…and


Instill the greatness in me

beyond what I could do myself…

Make me great…

Lift me up to my own bad ass self…and

For that…I will love you.


December 2015



The Blues & the Black & Whites


Just a song

Just fingers feeling their way-

Across the keys-- to make a sound

Up & down, over the black & whites…


& now it’s singing!...    (moaning,  really…)

“I need something,”…

“I need some love,” it says…

“I’m so tired….”

“I need someone to love”….

& it holds that long note…….Love….

“Cause I got the blues,” it says, and holds that long note…the blues


& then…

All these people want to come into my heart-

The good & the bad, the joyful & sad…

Like they were running away from something….

Running from their pain…

but my heart can’t take them all…

& some fall to the ground…to the ground…


Now I’m swaying….

I’m staggering…

I’m fallin’

& I’m calling out to the blues….the black & whites to begin again…

calling to the keys…to the days & nights…

to the wrong & rights…the black & whites…


& it says to me…

“You are the heart of love,”

& I say, “no, no…” & it says,

“You are the home of people…

those that need to talk…& to cry…

& to hide……


And your heart must be open wide..

With the blues… with the true blues,

The “everyman” blues…

The sound, the song , the moan of the keys…

The black & whites,

The days & nights…

The blues coming back, & then going away…

The “everyman” blues…the day blues, the night blues

& the black and whites…


& the people climb into my heart again…

& nobody falls…

& the good & the bad…

& the joyful & sad…

& the inextricables,

the sound of the night… is right…

it’s the black and the whites…

it’s the blues…in the night

and it’s right…


December 2015


Hecka You Betcha I Love Jazz


Blue light saxophone and brass…

snapping, popping and pinging slam,

and bang pop and bebop riffing, tripping

and sand grit and shoe slide, ride..


Over a tufted mottle stick floor…

and bouncing notes to rhythm

and bluesy horns above a strum

foot tapping, slapping knee..

boys you sure play that

rapa-tappa good..


And night is just an open door…

to moving stars..

and walk in click away

to smarmy bars


And booze, and snooze and

what the hecka, you betcha,

I love jazz…


January 2013



Flying to Napoleon

Like flying out of a Hemingway story,

my affirmations on my sleeve,


looking for a door that leads

out of the bar where my characters loom


unready to follow me into the maze

of legendary creatures I created yesterday

on the cusp of Virgo and Leo.


And, if Paris seems a little dull

It is only because I have shifted

the light of my halo to a new cant,


a racy angle that fits the street

of cafés and bistros

as I make my way in a brisk walk,


trailing my coat-tails in the wind

as Oscar Wilde may have done

a hundred years before

on his way to an aperitif

with Toulouse Lautrec,


my crude bound copy of Canterbury Tales

tucked under my arm


and my gilt-topped walking stick

reaching for the cobblestones

winding beneath the

pointed toes of my boots,


flying to Napoleon’s castle at Versailles

to see if the tree he planted in 1794

is still there…


 May 2012




Did I see you in this tower leaning

with your face crying out to me…?


Did I see you in the smoky gloom

and was your heart on fire…?


Did I see the faint smile of the

obsequious un-preened sycophant

in the fiery eyes of glee…?


Did I see you fling your heart to the ground

past the agog city eyes…?


Did I see you fall in eyes of love and concrete…

and did you say one last time…

“It’s all for love… just love…?”


And did your eyes cast shine

across the blue city…

above the rivers and the turbid plains

in a desperate kiss…


buried in primitive debris…

a light going out…

hissing to ascension…?


July 12, 2015


        Don Alberts

See more of Don's lyrical work in his MillValleyLit debut SPRING 2013 in Stacks. 

The Poetry of Anne R. Dick


The Birthday Interview

... born 31 years ago

and nine months before that

a man and a woman in intimate embrace


but before that

where were you?

floating in an atmosphere of clear coca cola

and faintly pink ambrosia


what kind of body did you have?

a crystalline body


and did you feel... and think?

of course


and what did you feel?

I felt the brilliant radiation of time and space

I felt the shining thoughts of God

I felt the darkness of the earth


and what did you think?

my feelings were my thoughts


did you want to come to earth?

I wanted nothing...I wanted everythging

I had no volition of my own


well now that you've been here for a while

how do you feel about it?


I need more time to think - another 31 years


I'll come back and follow up then

thanks for the interview


both poems from Space and Love


Anne R. Dick

Those wishing to order copies of Anne R. Dick’s books can contact the publisher, Point Reyes Cypress Press, at Box 459, Point Reyes Station, CA 94956. Or <www.pointreyescypresspress.com>.



"When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe." John Muir




Buddha Garden private home Sleepy Hollow, San Anselmo, CA

HOME | THE LITERARY LATTÉ—Stories & Poems | ON MY NIGHTSTAND—Books reviewed | REVIEWWriting and more| THE SCENE—News, Events, Resources | SALON—Interviews, Submission, Contacts|The STACKS—Back Issues



Authors bio photos from the authors

uncredited photos by J. Macon King


© MillValleyLit and King Marketing Group. All rights reserved. Reproduction of any material without permission is strictly prohibited