On my first visit to San Francisco
It's a Parisian pretty
all piss and orchids,
the heavy stench of both
making you wish there
was more of the other.
The elevation rambles
like it's crack pipe angels,
topography muttering about
God and guns and gold.
To metallic antennae
spark above the cabled car
I'm riding in;
the small fireworks
illuminate staccato city streets.
In China town the people
all wear Dolce Gabana,
their plastic bag hands
full of fruit rice and
a default forgiveness.
And the cabbies tell
their stories in terse
passionless phrases, no longer
competing with the
story of the city,
all shit and sidewalks
and Andromeda,
still chained to the rock
and waiting.
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