[PREV - GOD_OF_HELL] [TOP]
April 8, 2003
Late for the poetry
reading, I balk at BOLTHOLES
the crowd overflowing
on to the stairs, and
instead just wander
the aisles. At "City Lights". Call me
a name dropper, I don't care.
Nothing tips me over the
edge -- I keep my sales
resistance up, even for
that pamphlet in defense (But who am I fooling? I'm
of Sartre. going back for it. Might as
well get it over with tonight.)
A late touch of sunset in LAST_DITCH
the sky sends me climbing
up Telegraph Hill.
I detour up an alley I'd
never noticed before. It's
a staircase climb, then a
turn to the right. At the
turn is a strange court:
car ports under a
building, open on the
left, with a wooden
balcony that overlooks the
hills of North Beach.
I ran up two blocks of 45 degree incline,
and then up some even steeper stairs:
the long straight climb along the south face.
At the top I find new
staircases built into
My thigh muscles the back of Telegraph
go blank, it gets hill, formalizing a
hard to keep from shortcut to the crest.
huffing loudly and
distracting the And even I
tourists. will not gripe
Who are already improvement.
surreptitiously: Erosion's a real threat
long hair, black on a heavily trafficked
leather jacket, hill, and I've seen
black combat pants. worse constructions than
these rough bordered
Each step is emblazoned with
the name of a contributor...
desperate to be known for how
desperate they are to be known.
The sky is clear, the dark strata
haze down low and far out to sea.
Just a few thin streaks of red
slash the sky behind the bridge.
A streak of cirrus rides high
in the sky, another horizontal Even worse:
parallel in this composition of the geography
parallels. of the sky.
The distant buildings have all
gone a dark blue gray, yellow
lit windows just beginning to
People snap photos
of each other
against the ocean.
I plan a photoshoot of
my own: clad in black, The City Seal on the
climbing around the rim side of the trash bin is
of Coit Tower. turned to the wall, but
otherwise (because of
this?) has been left
Then I'm off, scrambling No graffiti, mud, or
down the staircases in signs of fading.
search of Italian food.
Running down the steep streets,
I plunge through a burst of rose
smell from a garden wall, and
think "All these moments will be
Too bad that's been sampled so often.
I scrounge about, determined to find Ravioli for less
than $10, and only beat that by five cents.
[NEXT - BOLTHOLES]