Saturday, 25 June 2011

About San Francisco

we are all little slips of it just
rough ends of unfinished sentences
rough beads of rolling beads of
bean fed little birds off set by
setting suns in the fog of their
repossessed nothingnesses
and expressions of poetic

this is not how it should start
in the park, overlooking the
steep edges of oakland
and I'm fucking up before I even start

I'm just overwhelmed by
the sun and the grass,
and the size of this page it
could go on for days
and it's clear now but
night time brings cold fog
and haze

If I was thinking right I'd
have beautiful thoughts
but I'm shrunk into a
place of unwanted smallness
of mind and of sight
if I could see further,
if I could think with a calm mind

What if we were all as free as she
without the ceremonial flowers of remembrance
pounding the earth beneath her with
cosmic energy, drawn down from the
the the open open the
back edge of the sharp hill she dances on
toes on green
heels in the air
body twisting to the will of the breeze and
lungs full of a wail of pleasure
will power
Dolores park is a spinning gypsy
hair cut and the smell of
ancient acceptance
and she
is falling off the edge
with the wind in her
hair, and she
is with the others just

green is green in instances of green when green is brown and can be glances of blue too and green can be black when up against brown leading to green which is green when green is just green which is blue jeans on green in sections of patches it seems to be green and the patterns of feet which after the green are the patterns of blue which can be red and then green as the eye passes over and repeats the green which instantly seems just as green, just as green.

I can imagine it, all full of hope and
the innocence of not knowing
and I guess that's what it is now
pastoral drumming and the freedom
of dance
breathing in the memory of 67
and probably 76 too
tanned bodies bobbing to
terrestrial beats while their
disregard for spiritual gravity
floats above them
balanced kicks laden with a
southern vibration that shakes
these northern hills of California

the exalted freedom of
expressed excess, coursing through
the blood that rushes
to my head and through my eyes
and my fingers
and there's a ringing
like sleigh bells that
reminds me of the portable
refrigerator reality of 2011

and it's really here
at the end of a long
tired nap
in the sun
under a palm tree in San Francisco

Number 4 oh 50 on the side edge
of the easy street
sipping deep from the air around
with a nicotine straw
and you can hear the music
even when his breathing stops
and the beat is drawn with
the steady, slow clicking of
empty keys on brass and
stainless soul
as his grin-less smile taps the
edges of reed,
and what he's learned from
the universe slips through
the cracks in his teeth

all the other dogs
are jealous of his quick,
long legs
especially the ones who are
too wound up to use their own

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