dayonfire (dayonfire) wrote in the_beats,
dayonfire
dayonfire
the_beats

Rambling North Beach

Excerpt #3 of my three volume chapbook in progress, THE RAMBLE NOOSE, incorporating last week's visit to San Fran. Walked right past Jack Kerouac Alley, looking for one without a name.



...and so context is everything. Omniscience itself constantly making deals with nomenclature. Yaweh paid a lump sum In The Beginning, not realizing that the payoff was not forever. The last payment resulted in the Crusades. Once heaven's coffers were drained up there, did we begin in earnest to speak of God in domestic terms. Look where we are now. It is clear the Seraphim did no invest their allowance wisely, so you can easily reckon how long it takes for us to write off their bossman's experiments.

The lake, good for a vacation respite, as long as it is not overcrowded and filled with bass.

The mountain, overcome by wandering Sisyphi or revered for seconds on end at the souvenir shop in all its 6 by 9 inch wonder.

The backstreets of cities, infinite and overlooked.

This last instance was made clear to me in a visit to San Francisco, that dizzy fondue pot of intercontinence, by natives and round-tongued cabbies hailing from the other side of earth.

"We are not New York. We like people here." Omar shouted over Mozart.
"San Fran is a small city, a good city. People like it here."

A ridiculous generalization, but one that stood up to my own observations.

"I have actually seen that in people's faces. Its very clear. I said ITS VERY CLEAR!" Wolfgang almost won that one.

"Yes, it is a special place, with good..."

"Good energy" I interrupted.

"Exactly! That is it exactly. And because it is so small, everyone gets along. We must. We do not have the luxury of"

"of distance."

Omar nodded enthusiastically and turned up a violin concerto.

And I did see it, too, in the faces of midnight tattoos at the Taqueria. Even the transients seem to find money for Mission Street burritos. On long benches they rock, side-by-side, with members of the next great band as they pay their street dues after rehearsal. Chicas bonsai-sculpted down to the sacred root blast by with their mother's heart-shaped ass, circa 1051. Even the players pay their respects, to all asses in fact, with censored catcalls clothed in Lorca's Deep Song. Of course it is witheringly Romantic to say everyone was happy. San Fran is not Elysium, except for those I saw struck by lightning. The homeless roam and rest in every flat nook, from Catro to Bernal Heights, the worst cut of Tenderloin to the diamonds of Noe Valley (no far cry from the dreams of Jose de Jesus!). However, even here in these visages cassés there emanates a sense of complacence, even if only on account of the temperate climate they have chosen to die in.
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