Published in April 2005 Poetic Voices

Amidst the fervor of fog, a silent appeal
in the lighthouses ghostly tendril
beckoned me to the shore
of which I could not be certain
.
I was marrow damp, chilled
by masses flitting in an instant
before they were gone the next,
specters dead from too much life
.
The martini signs which characterized
all of the debaucheries opulence
shone a distilled red, clinging to the night
like it was some drunkard's gut
.
I died in the similes of the valley, years back
and the metaphors of the beach, they beat me
until I could only seek respite in the concrete shoal
of San Francisco, Pier 39 to Golden Gate
.
Everything else was abhorrent to my soles,
the foot beat excruciating, the junkies and queers,
an evolutionary leap from Burrough's legacy
Ginsberg is now juxtaposed
.
Go to NYC, but not so long it makes you soft
and go to 'frisco, though not so long it makes you cold