LEAVES
ALL THE LEAVES ARE BROWN
Digging in the dirt Today so much
mud and water Dirt floats & Noah
might even have trouble reclaiming
his projections Dealing with his shit
This day is not for hope-squelched
citydwellers You must have grit to
get through it Like the man on the
corner waiting for the bus
A Bukowski dead-ringer Face scarred
& misshapen eyes sunken ships Almost
feral He will likely either: murder the bus
driver or jump into my car & beat some
sense into me?
For not renting the apartment in San Francisco 20 yrs.ago
When I was plump with possibility & organic
granola California has a way of getting under
the skin & in my 57th year I can still smell the
fear lessness encountered there
Big Sur Henry Miller long dead & Liz Smart’s
ghost still weeping by Grand Central Station
My thoughts perpetually creeping to Divisadero St.
let me in
__
Winter 2014
