And when I met that girl in San Francisco Off a dusty little pier with rotting wood and squawking seals And screaming bayside wind
She caught me off-tropics and danced with the grace of a palm tree lines between the quaked concrete off telegraph avenue On an obscuring Sunday morning
and no she didn't go to church or any silly thing like a temple or synagogue She said those were no places for god
God was the trees
We smoked cigarettes and got off to each other's carcinogenic practices oxidizing a little faster in conjunction with hopeful Formaldehyde Deriding the formalities of small talk and trivialities
She liked her guitars with nickel-wound strings I with nylon But I couldn't play songs that sounded any good with them while she could and did.
and girl did it ever sound good
She'd laugh at the contests on the radio while we drove on a half-moon to half-moon full and whole of ourselves We'd stopped in the lobby of a cheap motel And waltzed to background muzak wacked out of our minds Sniffing in deep huffs of subliminal divinity Understanding loving that mind-numbing monotony
muzak... ppsh. Who ever really listened to that?
And then she left at the end of one fine winter day in a cloudless sky I waved watched her plane skip off towards the edge of a pale blue horizon back south to warmer climes to wherever she truly stayed The tugging on my heartstrings chimed grotesque in precise D minor.