tangled torn pages
black
sooty,
destined to be wiped clean by the City’s shining lights
straight ahead Fresno Hotel,
hobblin into swingin Green door entry salty malty saloon horizon,
Billie’s ghost cryin blue tears all over whiskey counter bums
Fresno, with no pyramid protectin top tobacco wanderers
who intently gaze squarely though deathsquads visions,
who throttle sudden sounds of climax
blank genitals stuck together
rebirthin sea drift harbors
bearin crescent waves liftin half the earth
spinnin laterally all directions
Fresno tobacco wanderin armies
who are immune to where they land
once outside these basement walls
below telephone pole backyards
inside fervent NorthBeach gardens
1973
SF