Poet of the Pavement

John Carlos Morrison Sr. came to Beverly Hills because God told him to.

He passed that on to me one day when we were having breakfast in Nate ‘n Al’s deli. I believe him. God has told a lot of people to come to Beverly Hills.

Morrison was busy digging into a giant corned beef sandwich so we didn’t get around to discussing God’s exact wording. But I’m sure he said something about writing poetry, which is how Morrison is trying to make a living.

For instance:

“Now some people walk pass

And laugh at my ass

‘Cause I’m living in the street

I’m going against the odds

Only because I got God

And that’s why I’m so sweet.”

Did I mention he’s homeless? He’s the tall guy with a diamond earring in his left ear who stands in front of the deli almost every morning and reads his poetry aloud, hoping for a little donation.

Poets have lived off little donations since the dawn of iambic pentameter, so there’s nothing new there.

And there’s nothing new about homeless people wandering the streets. There are about 100,000 of them in the county. But the difference between them and John Carlos Morrison Sr. is he’ll be damned if he’s going to stay that way.

I heard about Morrison one day from a PR guy named Bob Abrams, who is part of the matzo ball Mafia that meets most mornings at Nate’s. Press agents and producers, people like that.

“The guy’s got ‘Beverly Hills Poet’ carved on his head,” Abrams told me over the phone. “When he’s not reading poetry he’s acting as doorman.”

It was the part about “Beverly Hills Poet” carved on his head that got me the most interested. Actually, the words are cut into the back of his hair, not his head, but it’s still a kick.

Morrison, 48, is an ex-welterweight who boxed for 20 years. Then there was trouble in his marriage and he hit the road. He’s got five kids in foster homes under court jurisdiction.

“The judge says I can have them back if I get work and a place to stay and read some parents’ book,” Morrison says. “I’m going to do that.”

Meanwhile, he’s living in a parking garage not far from the deli. In the morning, he’s in front of Nate’s reading poetry aloud, and in the evening he’s down the street in front of a place called Tribeca doing the same thing.

He comes up with maybe $40 a day to live on, plus $600 a month he gets from the state. Most of that goes to his kids, Morrison says, for shoes and other things they need.

“I hang on to enough to keep my pride and warm my behind,” he adds, gripping the corned beef sandwich like someone’s about to grab it out of his hand.

What he’s hoping for is the kind of miracle real poets hope for: a published volume that will make him rich. That’s about as likely as God telling him to move to Malibu. God knows better’n that.

“What you ought to do is get up off your ass and get a real job,” a passing waitress says to Morrison as he expounds on his dream. She says it in a voice loud enough to shatter crystal. Thankfully, there is none in Nate’s.

Newcomers to the deli are startled by her abrupt intrusion into a private conversation. But the regulars know that’s just the way Kaye Coleman is. She’s been at Nate’s for 25 years. Everyone is simultaneously her friend and her victim.

“I been kicked in the behind a lot,” Morrison says as she swings by again. Coleman stops.

“So has everyone else,” she tells him.

The police tolerate him, Morrison confides, because they know he’s honest and won’t hurt anyone.

He recites loudly from memory:

“I’m living in the street

Trying to be very discreet

Trying to be clean and neat

Trying to smell exceedingly sweet

Trying to get ice cream to eat.”

“He doesn’t give us a bad time, we don’t give him a bad time,” a cop says. “He’s got it tough enough as it is.”

“God’s going to give me a break,” Morrison says later in front of the deli, cards of poetry in hand. “I’ve got a break coming.” He sees a handicapped man trying to get out of a car and rushes over to him.

“You know,” Abrams says watching him, “he really does belong in Beverly Hills.”

You’ve got to hand it to God. He sure knows his poets.