I leered and toppled down the streets
of San Francisco surprised at each familiar site, an immediate invisible bond
sprung up, connecting me with those
velvet visions and with those who have
immortalized them.
These places actually exist was the
lingering fragrance of my inner world.
Jolted as i was from the past, and my
teenage flings with computer haze, the hypnotic gaze,
i continued to tumble all about.
Those Spanish vibrations, los, san,
santa, la, del, mar fuse together in an exotic dance of
electric joy.
Connected by networks of cable and tar
they roll and fizz ecstatic off the tongue joining road and sun in this
landscape of adventure.
Those names stand next to very certain
English names of a descriptive quality, mysterious sounding places like the
lost hills.
The lost hills which evoke fantasy and
landscape long lost.
The lost hills as they were nameless
and concrete-less before they were found,
and pound for gold and dollar.
Now I shout and leak joy into the San
Francisco night and all the exotic mystery of the name seduces me.
Food and music wait for me midst its
slanting, quaking, shaking hurly burly.
