A New Year, San Francisco

You have been here before,
it’s never the same,
and you find your way
like a tree root in the city,
like a park bench,
by the houses stacked
with their secrets on the inside,
those beautiful gardens

where everything grows.
From a late-night diner
to the Starlight Lounge,
all your treasures are vintage
and new, and the city bids you
to build your own broth
and taste along the way,
share a sandwich in the grass,

shake hands with Duncan in the street
who cleans up the trash
four times a day,
on a mission from Market
to Mission, peer in the misty window
of Club Deluxe, find your place
at the Zam Zam, where there is still
a stool waiting, a secret door

and an invitation
to the underground,
honest like the bar goddess
who mixes elixers, nighttime fixers
along the street, for the outstretched
hand, and for the one
who has forgotten
to reach out his hand at all.

You cannot help but look inside
the dark doorways at night
when you take the alleys,
the cans and the needles
and the tiny flame, and the shame
for your own looking.
You have no answers,
but perhaps a new question

for the woman with a walker
who shows you to the top
of Venus, releases the steel genie
from her bottle between
the white marble towers
of Trinity Place, and the ferry lists,
starboard side, from lovers
and from friends, and from a smile so wide

she could swallow the city,
and you would gladly go
to taste her mushroom spoons
on the wooden pier by a thousand stairs,
through eucalyptus
to the home of a Japanese man
who doesn’t know he set
your course one hundred years ago,

between the hills and oysters
and the city parrots making love,
while you dance with strangers
and the ones you have always known,
as all the stories intertwine
above a dance floor. Beneath cork tops,
you rise and fall like bubbles,
like blue balloons,

and we are all the first-time driver,
fresh hands on the wheel,
stuck in Stonehenge in the park,
and every direction
is the right way to return
to the longest beach
where a year goes out like the tide,
so toast to one another,

to the ones we have lost
and to the lost ones,
to the sun that rises
each holy day
over all the shining people,
to the concrete and the resolutions,
and take this taxi to the sea
where the great gray wings

of sunset flap
through the last
orange of evening,
and one feathered lantern
leads your open eyes to the sky,
toward a moonlit ladder
that invites you, again,
to climb.

Advertisements

Oakland

Raw
fish flesh
under scales,
we dine
on words
unfiltered.
There has been
a fire,
artwork ablaze,
friend of
a friend
inside.
One way in
and one
way out,
we swallow
the glass
with brine.
Once it has
been ordered,
all we can do
is drink.
Can you help,
the old Man says,
it’s the holidays,
and everyone
with pockets
turned inside
out has
nothing left
for the woman
who asks
for just one warm
cup of coffee,
too many corners,
with hands
that pray
for giving
and not enough
givers,
and the security
man says,
I can’t reach you,
one last time
before the walls
come tumbling
down.

Market Street Blues

The men, they tap
their feet so fast
like a battery of bullets
against the boards
against the pavement
so the people clap
and give their dollars
and sense
to the woman
with her too big sweater
and pajama pants
and the tan
of a thousand summers.
She comes so close
to join the dance
for a moment
before she remembers
about not belonging anywhere
and the child asks, Mommy
did she ever have a mother?