I was staying at the Adelaide hostel in Isadore Duncan Lane , San Francisco. A fellow I met there said, ‘ let’s 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 and 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 came 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, it’s on the house’. People came up to me and said, ‘your that Australian poet’. I met a fellow who knew Ramblin’ Jack Elliot, 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 ever other fucker. It was like I had fallen down the rabbit hole. I a small change Australian poet honoured not for me but for poetry’s sake. It was beautiful. By the end the band played Waltzing Matilda and I sang like a crazy Tom Waits as the night waned into morning. Yes Australians head to O’Reilly’s, and tell Myles I sent you.