Citizens Contemplate San Francisco in 2021

Photo by Nicole Herrero on Unsplash

All is well in the city of gold—San Francisco. The sea, opaline, makes its case before city inhabitants as they sun themselves in Dolores Park or ride the congested freeways.

The springbok nests in tall grasses. It latches to the earth with hoofed paws and grunts against the setting sun. No one can paint this for you. You can run or you can stare the devil in the face. Don’t be shy, don’t cry, keep going, keep going, keep rising up and up and onward, repeat.

Turmeric and ginger, floating yellow in a large mug also containing orange-blossom honey, not synthetic, not the essence of, but nectar caught by bees. It will never rot. It satisfies itself with strong drink and drug. The red light at the end of the alleyway. A job in the city picking up what others have discarded. Being in Los Angeles and referring to the city and catching confused looks. We are in the city, they say. I mean San Francisco, I say. Oh.

The silver-gilded porticos steam and pop in the sunlight. In Florence strangers marry and fall away again. The gelato shops are open until only 6 to maintain composure.

The sun is up, San Francisco. Rot beneath Powell street. You should be ashamed. I should too. We’re all well-meaning, right?

Marc Benioff gives money to things, though it would be nice if more and more went to the homeless. Though maybe it does.

Tonight may not be the night, but it could be a collection of nights. Just sit here. Savor the words.

Peace with nothing, peace in abundance. Grief in poverty, grief in abundance. Grief in either can be appropriate. Peace in everything is the most appropriate, human as we are.

San Francisco. The city turns to curds within me. The city curls within me. It’s always made me feel depressed. It is daunting with its darkness. Can I turn to you in times of need? I need everything.

What if I chased you until you faded out? What if I chased you until you turned into a pale blue wall at the end of an ocean-ringed road?

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