just south of the heart of north beach past trieste’s lousy sidewalk chairs slip down grant street’s narrow merging tip and watch the show … carol doda’s lightbulb nipples flashed on and off and on 24/7 for as long as anyone can remember their bright day-glo blood red bounces off the southern wall of that fleabag dive that no-tell hotel where intrigue is wearin’ thin…
above broadway on this corner you can lean halfway out your window to watch the show and the shit going down from hustlers hawking stumbling half naked blurry-eyed dancers to every street-deal’s marketplace genius to saturday night tourists and college boys hoping to get lucky all sittin side by side to the stinkin dirty old men all of them drownin and lost in all that silicone they can’t touch for all the overpriced drinks they can’t handle…
down across lombard and columbus across the alley stands ferlinghetti’s shrine devotees of hip genuflect to cool while shakin off the greyhound’s midwest grime they’re a half- century too late they don’t realize today’s game but soon enough they’re regretting the folly of tradin’ in the real of something tangible for the dream or the nightmare of sought-after literary or poet-fame for the dream that they will be ‘the next’ no such thing jack! no time ! no passion! no real ! no “next” this history can’t be rewritten
stinkin up the ambiance just takin up residence on sidewalk space new addict writer hopefuls with bellies full of dreams are shooed away like the pigeons so they hang, lookin cool feathered in dirt adding more shit to this city’s filthy sidewalks, while pretending to wait for the muni’s belch for hours on end still, its a hoot to watch while all the well-intentioned underpaid book clerks invite the uninvited take it elsewhere, pal you’re scaring away the money and the business…
feel that icy fog burnin’ through your shirt rattling your teeth? you should have paid attention listened up when ol’ mark twain wrote: “the coldest winter i ever spent was summer in san francisco” and hey! guess what? old LF doesn’t accept unsolicited submissions anymore its a real mystery how the new gets in is it secret code or handshake? maybe somebody leaning up against any wall with the rest of the crazies knows the score or where to…
the city’s stench can gag you dependin on the winds ridin’ off the bay’s backside nobody cares about you and that backpack you filled with your brilliant notebook poetry it was ripped off last week as you slept in your friend’s car and when you’re hungry the hip wears off any city’s fair skin that growling ringing in your ears is your belly song lyrics repeating stanza after stanza: food, wharfside clam chowder, garlic pastas steeping out of italian restaurant doors , fresh foggaccia bread and warm sour dough baked first thing by the old italian women on the corner and you diggin through the trash outside of the thai to-go joint for the luck of a half-full carton of yesterday’s noodle surprise
payin’-by-the-day at the no-tell hotel was never the plan or the dream…or was it? those rooms are filled with you and the rest of the down on their luck the lost the losers all sharing roof with others who’ve lost everything
up the street the artists and writers from the old days the one’s who had the luck bought their places before all the cool flats and victorians turned into condos/apartments/vacant hell-holes for the independently wealthy or daddy’s favorite trust fund babies you see them in the mornings sometimes early morning trieste expresso runs lookin’ old and missing all the dead poets who used to keep them sane
in this neighborhood nobody’s kind or hip enough to be paying for your fancy coffee drink this time no more, “I’ll get the next one creed because nobody cares about your life today not even you these days maybe just the one leering from his car wild-eyed might give you his time of day but no one else will be offering you anything free anytime soon
sirens are headin’ down for another OD in the alley down by where the old Y used to stand under the long-gone embarcadero span rocked by the quake that you missed too don’t worry that shakin’ will be back soon enough guaranteed
what else is lost? shoes, shirts, money, good looks all passable lives the list is as endless as the sky peeking through the pyramid building’s fingers they’re all here deep fried in the hoopla scrambled in edgy loss the hookers can’t even work this lombard game unless they pay and pay like lou ’s tale of walkin on another coast’s wild side
this game down here has non-negotiable rules if you’re a workin’ girl you gotta move on down the road closer to the tenderloin or your pretty just might get re-arranged and walkin in those heels just might kill you unless your john or your pimp or somebody else’s beats those shoes to it …i remember you running half naked up the street screaming after your pimp’s car begging for a taste to keep the sick away……a long ago faded photograph of the midwife mama raced across my eyes and i saw you dead too soon like the rest of them
your old typewriter’s key is sticking keys leaving your words challenged steal them wheelchairs for tomorrow canes and blindfolds dark glasses so they can really see what’s going on lean them out this filthy window instead save them save yourself this City’s echoing-empty enchantment is filled with memories and still, we count the days until
it
kills
us
too
