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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