Saturday, June 2, 2012 78 Comments


On Valencia Street I met a man
Whose hair announced the age; an age
Of wheelchair bums and whitey dreads,
Winy espressos and knobbed dildoes,
Watched over by caring helicopters;
Ecco San Francisco, this first
Decade of a crackborn millennium;
To any head that's screwed on tight,
Normal; to a loose-necked remnant
Ill-fastened to the present, an
Amazing sight - but when so epic
As this dude's head? Brown humongous
Broccoli dreads with daikon dreams,
Surely shoulder-length or more, yet
Pinned forward over - a baseball cap -
Picture it, dear reader, as you dare;
Observe that to the careless observer
This sprout, this growth much-loved
And deeply foul, has clearly thrust
Its way, a daisy through concrete, through
The crown of the equally foul cap... at
This moment the fart of a big truck
Rang in my mindless ear, and I recalled
The words of Mrs. Kate Crane Gartz -
Yes, of the famous plumbing Cranes -
In a letter to the Los Angeles Record
In 1923; "California," she wrote,
"Is called the Prussia of America,
The most reactionary of the states;
I would change that reputation
To the MOST PROGRESSIVE, in fact
The leader; to show the world we
Have something besides our scenery,
That we have a heart and soul." Oh!
Mrs. Gartz! I have a California,
Heart and soul both slightly used,
For you; yours I'll take in trade.
Does scenery mean too much to me?