When he finds his inner skaterboy
on Highway 1, he thinks he's the first
balding tourist to rediscover pubescence
at the foot of the Marin Headlands. Now
 
San Francisco distends to make room for him
and his brand new Tensor Lo 5.0
skateboard parts, surfboard on back-order, Oakley
blinkers, pocket Dharma Bums, as he drinks
 
Anchor at Vesuvio, brushes asses
with the young ladies of Columbus, buys bad weed 
from the pavement teens on Upper Haight and good stuff 
from the medical place at Fillmore Street.
 
He becomes himself (no really this is it
this time) at a Tantric withholding seminar
and DJ's a solstice rave until dawn.
Saint Francis has always been his man.
 
Then the skateboard is crushed by a produce truck
on Page and it reminds him of his last job
in New York real estate. Mark Twain was right:
he needs a warmer jacket. His new lady
 
leaves him for the wrong side of Market Street, home
to loonies, Moonies, old-fashioned addicts
and a tent city (she's always wanted 
to live in a tent city, likes the smell
 
of dandruff). Soon she'll be mayor. The young
yuppies have serious Sauvignons and blondes
to carouse around with here, and they swill 
in lit windows on Nob Hill to make the stars
 
above Grace Cathedral disappear. He doesn't
go back to City Lights but hibernates
in his rented room, far from the Jim Joneses
and graphic designers of the modern fog, 
 
swathed in Telenovelas and Double Rainbow
from the container. The Spanish were insane
to build a fort at the Golden Gate and The Dead
are dead. There's a landfill being made.

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