San Francisco

I light a cigarette
and let the torch breathe in
so slowly it goes down the cylinder like a recurring trolley
up its way to the Golden Gate Bridge

San Francisco has always called to me
I want to walk through Haight-Ashbury
at least once
and be among my people who are not my people
who are my people
but in a different time
I would have experienced what they experienced
I would have taken LSD at a Jimi Hendrix show
and I would have, jawdropped, seen him play with his teeth
fingers flitting up the fretboard
with the Hippies and their swaying
their headbands and peacesign bracelets
and I would have been one of them
I would have
San Francisco houses them
so I’m told

I want to try my manual car up those sectioned hills
that seem from T.V. shows to be everywhere
I want San Francisco and the Golden Gate and Alcatraz being in my 
     line of sight

and my cigarette is halfway to its end
and I am halfway to my first shower in a week
it’s been a dirty week
hands and everything
and I do not feel home in the South
where there are Christians and methheads everywhere
and crack cocaine is something only found in Atlanta

I want to be near the people who suffer in cold or
who never suffer in cold
out West
with the deserts and cacti and sagebrush
where there are coyotes and Black Widows and scorpions
and my neighbor has ferrets that stink up his house
and I sit on the A/C drawing cigarettes after the weed’s cashed out.

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