Oh, lurid San Francisco
harsh in your corners and
abandoned doorways with stairs that
lead to fair maidens in rich people’s apartments
harsh to those that can’t afford it
And the ones who populate the streets
you’re the teeth of the city
chewing anxiously away at nothing while
big wanna-be soulless somethings sit over
20 dollar appetizers and too much fernet and
Ashbury hippies turn the clocks back
so as not to forget
And oh, the poets in dirty shoes
they too searching for meaning or
metonymy to make the cracked pavement of life
sound pretty
with ratted hair, chewing away at tea tree oil toothpicks and
hand-rolled cigarettes
soggy at the end from the various mouths that touched it while
careening toward wine soaked trumpets
oozing from the saloon on Grant Avenue
next to tables of old men
who make melancholic eyes at me
as the fog drifts in
Oh, palid San Francisco
your grays and hues of blues, your
spirit rambling hills
gypped by the cement
once forlorn and pastoral, now
run by cars that drive themselves and
curly cued dogs that walk their owners down Duboce street
next to the Muni that carries me back
to the clash of the fascists and beatniks and frat boys of North Beach
It’s a hemorrhage of money
A not-so-sparkly group of techies in their too strong cologne at Specs
beneath the bartender’s furrowed brow
while I collaborate on an art piece making fun of the techies
with Google’s art director
And oh, your irony, San Francisco
or is it just mine
living in a sun soaked apartment off Haight Street
you saw my feet hanging out the window
chain smoking cigarettes
wondering how I’d ever afford it
Your harsh corners are the homes of many
beneath symbols of California’s gold rush, but
what’s the rush today, and
what are we chasing, anyway?