A beat poem about San Francisco and its culture.
Stumbling through cities perched on hills
Of sourdough fish markets street car
Bells ringing through the golden gated night
Tunnels like holes blasted through my line of sight
aching to be finally dry, not moist and dank like this place
Lombard, Market, Bush, Polk, Haight, Clement
Miniature night clubs bass drum in my heart,
Shredded poetry sprinkled on
Thick marinara sidewalks
I have stashed myself in this place and lie still and buried
Under the clustered earth of boxes stacked against
The tight streets
Fillmore, Mission, Castro
dope dealers crouching – city street light
Tender loins on my silent breast
The Doppler sound of hipsters tripping on technology
megabites , vinyl panthers now scattered in
burbs or jailed on islands of craggy Cyclops sight
Berkeley bookstores and students ground into
steaming coffee cups
Teachers, preachers on street corner-time
Soft-soap containers and newspapers bulging
Faces that know the answers and can count their change
Fiery hills collapse from the sodden weight
Wait. . .
I will return. . .I will come back as Allen’s daisy
Laid softly on Jello’s lair, curled up on dark doorsteps
a fragrant sigh escapes my mouth
Copyright 2009 Kathleen E. Ford
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