Blind to its grace,
San Francisco universe I strolled.
I walked upon the beleaguered stone of
a thousand marched protests still lingering
in the psychedelic shadows of daisies and
the whispers of the dead refused
—the bebopping jazz of those mad, starving
lads shouted at me from the
City of Light.
—shining on rooftops of
howling dogs and junkie
I sipped coffee and Kool-Aid in an unknown corner of an unknown world, camouflaged
by a collage of fliers and clippings, clinging to corkboard dreams—the easel of the artist, unborn, unheard.
In these booths did revolutionaries sit drinking flower philosophies from the cups of the chessboard, toasting
their pints of Milk, in solemn mourn.
I shared space with the finest
in film—the Clay, the Castro
the Red Vic, and the Lumiere. These were my churches
when my devils were bent on hunt and only the hide would save me from myself
and, in their darkness, did flickering angels and a crackling soundtrack
I strolled these streets in fear—afraid that my myopic Midwestern glaze might tarnish
the gloss. Little did
I know, that I could never damage the stain for this grace I failed to see had
already welcomed me embraced
and folded was I
into its never-ending kaleidoscope of life.