Dig! says the Monkey…
San Francisco Hand
Spiders walk, cross legged natural
darkness creeps across a once
brazen horizon
San Francisco will not sleep yet
San Francisco only draws a breath
The City by the Bay
They all say…
An entertaining place to waste
your time in free movements across
a desert of cultural vicissitudes.
We drive we ride we climb
and hike the tall hills hiding
small valleys of small guilt
a despair that permeates both stone and air.
There is an evil here
that seems to call back to hardier days.
The History is good but the present
reeks of death.
It is unspoken
It is desolate, it is pain, It underlies
the marina to the hills around the stick.
Somewhere, forever is
a clutching hand that will cradle,
hold cajole you
but will seek to keep you
forever in its grasp
Forever is never so long except in casual death
Except in carefree San Francisco Nights
be careful my children
or the guilt might get you too.
Wait
Dream awaits somewhere far off
my fair haired one
long legged
with passions still unknown
I dream as I smoke and
see you curl about my head
as you would cradle me within
your real arms flesh and blood
Hot and comforting.
For to be smothered by you
is a pleasure not
discomfort
To wander alone these streets
that seem grayer than even the
darkest sky at night
To wander alone without you
is not a well planned
pleasant pastime,
instead it is a lonely pace
trudge-like through heavy
space, a task to walk alone
a task to move through air
of dreams of you without you really there.
Daydream Lover
friend of mine
we shared so many times
daydream lover
good in kind
I couldn’t walk away
even if I could
I hear the blues without you
I dance alone
I can’t hit a memory
without the wind blowing
away all our thoughts
and linotone dreams
day dream lover one or two
come with me and do
all the things
we’re meant to do.
Rock N Roll
Billy Holiday brings tears
to my eyes.
Not from the passion
she bores me to it.
Blues channels its bull
Blues, BLUES, BLUES.
Say it with some gravel in your
voice
San Francisco owns the blues
Forty-year old white men with salt and pepper beards
slightly growing, ownin’ the blues.
Whisper Jazz, say it with a
whisper — Jazz eclipsed
when Davis died or twenty
years before… was dead before
it was born but was good that way.
Rock N Roll has rolled too,
like the railroads, railroads, rail roads
rotting frail and dangerous — somewhere
a new song awaits
At some time our stagnant regurge will end – U.S.A. we are not
fresh today.