San Francisco, you brittle old tattered whore city like elderly Zsa Zsa Gabor with real diamonds, you still put on a glittering front for your customers seen from the Bay on Sausalito Ferry approaching you at nightfall.
What is that far off roar I heard but hopeful schemers at Montgomery Street cocktail party of insane tearing? I heard you all from far out on the Bay coasting past the Rock, I heard crowds of young millionaires in black Italian hipster clothes clutching leather handbags filled with dreary dream money and heartless hope as Bentleys passed into the fog.
Down on Broadway I saw hard barkers under hard lights with hard faces, heard hard DVD porn blow-out specials 8 hours for $19.95. I saw Zsa Zsa decayed to tits and ass displayed at bargain rates and free looks encouraged under the glare as washed up out of time hippies huddled on Kearney Street stairs waiting for this night to pass with one guitar but no one who could play.
I heard fast-talking North Beach restaurant shills, pasta shills, pasta shills, who long ago took down their pants for one thousand dollars now they hustle tourists through the door for cold cold calamari at bargain rates on the cold sidewalks of North Beach today above the Scarbary Coast.
Over Russian Hill on Polk Street I heard hard nightmare laughter spewing from open bar doors while hard homeless wretches echoed same hard haw haw jiving, dancing and paper bag drinks on the curb and puddles of vomit spread along the sidewalk turning pink in the dawn.
Oh city of toilet paper wads under the eucalyptus and sodden doughnut boxes in the bus stop shelter, city of drunken wakes for departed neighborhood libraries, city of rotting art under the mudslide, of shameful ignorant laughter in the starving night.
I love you so much, old whore.