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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 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 small
building, with a wooden
balcony that overlooks the
hills of North Beach.
San Francisco's
geography defies
words.
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
at this
Who are already improvement.
eyeing me
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
stone/concrete steps.
Even though each step is
emblazoned with the name
of a contributor...
desperate to be known
for how desperate they
The sky is clear, the dark strata are to be known.
haze down low and far out to sea.
(For once.)
Just a few thin streaks of red
slash the sky behind the bridge.
A streak of cirrus rides high in
the sky, another parallel in this Even worse:
composition of parallels. the geography
of the sky.
The distant buildings have all
gone a dark blue gray, yellow
lit windows just beginning to
outshine them.
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
unmolested.
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
lost --"
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.
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