Sunday, April 14, 2019

'The 1970s. San Francisco, Mission St, between 2nd St & 16th.'

The 1970s. San Francisco, Mission St, between 2nd St & 16th.
Walking distance from both Greyhound and Trailways buses.
Run-down diners with 2 egg breakfasts, no meat, for $1.25 or so.
I could a rent the saddest room in the city for $25 a week.
Messenger companies hiring. Cheap pot, cheap wine.
Goodwill and Salvation Army 1 block over on Howard.
1 dollar movies on Market, 1 block the other way.
Except for work, I could go for weeks without conversation.
Weekends, a 25 cent streetcar ride to Ocean Beach.
Poetry readings somewhere almost every night,
Sit in the back and scribble in my notebook.
Smoking pot openly on the street, never a problem.
Or spend all day in the stacks at the SF library
Reading books from 1910, forgotten poets.
I had no past, no future, lived day to day.
Lucky Strikes. Street vendor hot dogs. Jack Spicer poems.
That summertime layer of fog across the city and the bay.

James
14 Apr 2019
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