August 31, 2012
Walking In - 8/30/12
Cool and sunny.
Today I'll try to climb the stairs of Coit Tower
Trees shed leaves uncertainly
Is this Fall?
No one knows and a city worker sweeps up piles of fallen yellow leaves and purple Bougainvillea petals
A sign says "Please close gate" and beneath that, "Farewell"
Climbing to the sun through cool groves of Monterey Cypress
Thinly poured slabs of sunlight push in between the trees
Deep fried Asians perform calisthenic rituals
Coit tower: "Open 10:00 a.m. Daily" :(
Bark falls in neat strips from aromatic Eucalyptus trees
an ugly woman melodramatically tosses her hair in vain
Worker bees blow the fallen eucalyptus leaves around without ambition or passion
Plumbago and deeply rooted lies and police cars
Worker bees polluting my hidden gardens with foul cigarettes
Tall thin palms and Lilac and Lantana
Palms so tall the Bougainvillea cannot go there
Trumpet Vine and Ficus and Cottonwood in countless hidden gardens
The Peter Macchiarini steps
How easy it is to judge other peoples' gardens
Agapanthus frying in the sun
But now here what is this ground-cover in the shade?
And this red fruit concealed within it
They're growing strawberries the fruity bastards
I stop to shoot these secret gems
Dead end. Not a through street.
That's what the signs say, but I know better.
Not in a car maybe.
Last night I almost had a dream
I left the bar after a few drinks and rode a wheelie up Green Street
The motorcycle was angry for some reason, no different than a horse
Sometimes they want to run and in my dreams the beast found something evil within her
I know not what
The beast rose beneath me and all I could do to hold onto the reigns as we roared up Green Street on one wheel
A frightened little rat-girl in the crosswalk and momma always warned her of the apocalypse and now here's the horses prophesied in the apocalypse riding down upon her and she dives out of the street, heels and skinny jeans and all.
But the angry beast stops in time at the stop sign and she looks up at me with quivering dinner-plate eyes.
I slap the beast on the flank - a feral dog on a rusted chain.
"Down boy! Bad dog!
I turn the machine down a different street.
What can I say?
The motorcycle is what it does to you.
Sometimes the beast gets away from us.
Posted by Rob Kiser on August 31, 2012 at 6:02 PM
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The beast, like all the homeless, needs home cooking.
Posted by: sl on September 1, 2012 at 10:09 AM