out this way

bay tides know vertical changes,

church organs since smoothed over

now announce the long octopus trumpet ride

down Grant Street’s endless grooves

left turn slopes

this early morning nonchalantly yawns,

clearing out the stalls

hosing down the brokebrick alleyways,

then later passing out free beers,

those redgold Ringling boys

never stop buzzin,

voices onward and upward

meltin into the morning tule fog

and round midnight

last 4 bits go for last draft

lest writer’s cramp,

as the stately beacon peers out over the pyramid buildings to the south,

as patrons bet on the all time greatest hip sip

as the magic runaround booze wheel

fuels back up

to begin the Bay cycle again

and round another midnight,

members need a mad companion for the SEE, baby,

to run round these syncopated sheer visionary streets

carrying only a blighted butterknife for scrapings

cause these all night bebop joints need to swing, man,

members need to celebrate in dueted harmony

with some other lost brother

to swap solitary passages,

the scope of where we are

“hey scribbler,

which way’s the parkjail

where bums recite their circus visions?”

“which way’s the broken 3-legged table

scattered with beernuts and poesy

frosted blue chipped wine glasses,

where patrons unashamedly belch out

wild Scottish songs of gladness?”

then usher me through those washed out seadog green doors

that swing straight into sweet ecstasy screams

melted down jukebox fury,

come, let’s gait the flutters

ride those all night City trains

bobbin up down through these sleepless City hills,

for this west goes no further tonight,

and there is a prophetic dream comin this way

NorthBeach, SF

8/15/73