in the mission. san francisco. hoot horns and cable car walk down césar chávez. i been a long time coming. landed there in one bum house tall pre-christian house with victorian corners and mantelpieces. full of orgiastic postqueer neighborhood chums in yellow leg warmers and white headbands. a long time. millions urging and merging in this house. coming. a way out. right these old cliches upright again. the same ones reemerge. so a mess of glorioustic leftmongering and rimming. a long. wandering in through out among and mess everywhere in shades of purple blue bacchanlian bliss say. and i alone wandering clearly amiss.

emerge outside half snow half sleet half air full of pollen and springtime blooms dried waving through air. i walked down cobblestone and crackways under a dislevel passover and in front debonair emerges tight waist and firm supported midsection boisterous chest a riot of sophistisexuality as if a tophat as if a graceful collar and thick football frat neck but gracefully none of same anywhere. there were ways for this in the twenties say. and he between sailor and literary star. small star. and i loaded with books who say. cant remember the names but infinitely concerned with language poets and this sort of excursion. and then suddenly he has saluted me said hello then. i say a mess of words he's passing bye and i whisper undecidedly, if what i had been then to say qué? and his shock glistens, swerves and turns, oh my child, that is so passé. and his tall firm thick well proportioned thin hip mass saunters away softly chiding with a giggling amalgam of laughter and spite.

i crushed gaze longingly searchingly for his ass then my books. read their titles forgotten to me now. there they were and trip fall stumble out they go down a crack in the street. scrambled down the incline in front of curbside sidewalks run down grassy slope emerge on beach balls and volleyballs and seaside partying by the bay and sand and yellow red and white blue balls up the incline again now another into hopefully the pass under the street to retrieve my fated books those lost titles that alone hold promise and growing opportunity. and now no people everyone where escape from them and now fences chain link and at the top barbed wire and over them junkyards full of scrap metal.

wake sweating sweated the t-shirt empapered to my skin and wet air mattress half deflated and forlorn. rural texas fagnightmares.

there will be no future for books the mission or tight wasted firmly built young dandies. no.

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