Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
tabitha Apr 2017
a boy staggers to our side of the street
something was different, but he seemed sweet
drunkenly, i asked him if he was trippin'
she reprimands me for pointing it out
he looks scared, we tell him he's ok
he pulls her in, desperately
she holds him, possessively
bile from his belly escapes, stealthily, from his lips
it drips it drips it drips
onto her head
"It's ok it's ok it's ok"
she holds my joint to his mouth to settle his stomach
i don't want her to because i can see the gloss of bile still on his lips
he told us his name was Savannah, it wasn't
he staggered away from us to the other side of the street
to his car
his car
"you forgot your jacket, please don't drive"
i approach, i hold his hand
he mistakes that as an invitation to kiss me
i ask him if it was his first night with Lucy
where are his friends?
"i don't know"
he cranks his key into the ignition in all the wrong ways
windshield wipers start going off, blinkers, headlights, the horn
i have the thought that maybe he thinks his car is a Bop-It
"walk with us, don't drive, ok?"
he steps out of the car
i lean into the car, finagling his keys out of the ignition
his face changes
he grabs every follicle of hair inhabiting the back of my scalp and throws me into the middle of Haight
"who the **** are you who the **** are you"
my body bag of bones smacks down on the pavement
i've never been assaulted by a stranger, only by people close to me
i want to hurt him before he could hurt me again
there's no one around to stop him from doing more
only her, but she doesn't see
and she couldn't, even if she wanted to
and neither could i

"i'm trying to help you, Savannah"
his eyes? black
mind? crowded
chest? heaves like a rabid dog
heart? frightened beyond measure

he is strong and he is paranoid
his fear magnifies mine  
i, in yet another encounter with a raging young white male...
in situations like this, what have other womxn done?


but i can't leave her
she's on the curb, talking about nothing
with some other random *******
she's testing out her drunk love eyes
they stand so close to each other
i tug her sleeve, begging to go
she's not hearing me
"please, let's go"
she waves me off

Savannah stares at me from across the street like a confused ape
giant eyes, easily threatened, could rip you apart at any second
i have the keys to my car, i can just go
i don't want him to hurt me again
i want to go, i want to go, but i can't leave her

"if you love me, come with me NOW, please"
that line always works in the movies, but life is not a movie
to my dismay
this catches her attention, but not in the way i want
she hunches and steps toward me,
"how dare you say i don't love you?"
"i'm scared, we need to go"
"do you know what i've done for you?"
she's still stepping towards me, i'm tripping backwards
"that's not what i meant, please let's go"
it's 2am in San Francisco
we're yelling, in front of a bar called Zem Zem
"he threw me into the street"
she's tripping on her own feet

i, in yet another encounter with a raging alcoholic that i love
what's to be done when they're in this state?


we woke up in my car where i'd parked it the night before
the side i'd landed on when Savannah threw me was a bit sore

she said we were both in the wrong
an act of violence is committed against me, and i'm wrong
what am i to you? i wonder
i could have left her
but that's against my programming
you know, the software some parents install
to ensure co-dependency and lack of individuality
i didn't have the strength to argue
that falls in line with my programming
sometimes our oppressors are the people we love most

if i believed in anything like spirits or supernatural beings,
this memory would be one of my beautiful little ghosts
life is so messy.
Bryce Jun 2019
Lying poets, they take their words to street
And sweep their hidden eyes to the pissant stone of curb
And drink in the sound of vehicle
Dreaming to be heard as loudly
But soft
And dreary
As the cloud
that casts its watchful shadow
Over the golden hills at the edge of space
And perpetually disposed themselves
Of any real fluidity

The sun pecks at the skin of the earth, as the waves of heat dance for her
And I become lost in the very essential part of it
That runs across the blades of grass in a quiet park
Where children scream gleefully and rub up against the chain-link
And the dogs empty themselves in feeling

The church bells, a trolleycar, the hobo collecting cans from an oasis of free trash bins
I drink the taste of **** and flower fields in the sweet summer sun

I could not believe what I had begun

The dream of Milton, my friend Kerouac, the Republic
The marble columns on Sansome
They are a treat to my ever-aging eyes
Seeking something in the dirtied troughs of heat
In the summer sun

But when will I be done?
where ancillary
with Sara
on hill
made wheels
spin the
tires and
burn their
tracks when
demons are
dire spirits
that lift
their hanse
in Bay
Area mother's
musical chairs
and children
wrest souls
A gay mother
Antino Art Apr 2018
Let's talk about this jazz club
that lives in my cellphone
in 1950 something with Chet Baker
back from the dead.
Let's toast to random notes taking flight
into the city in the middle of nothing nights we've known or been familiar with.
Let's shake hands cordially with the unfamiliar as in "deal", or "peace be with you" as if in church, tipping hats at that stranger passing by at the crosswalk some late evening in spring alongside dandelions sprouting forth from the pavement. Let's read between breaks of beats Kerouac must have hit in 1950 something San Francisco in yelps into the moonlit stages of the balcony of his boxcar boxcar boxcar gone by in a mad blur with whatever graffiti'd message of hope it bore on its sides. Let's hitch into the unknowingly infinite by way of the pen's mighty point. Let's unlearn the way syllable by syllable and demolish languaged signs like hurricane force candor blowing down fact-ory made terms and political decorum as smoke from the pages of their corporate handbook joins the Chet Baker solo note pilgrmage into the holy skyline. Let's move side by side unspoken as those jazz notes he forgot to play. Let's fill in those blanks with uninformed confidence beyond our abilities and grasp the unsayable names of our dreams remmebered. Let's see in seconds passing like bums inebriated with the holy moments gone too soon. Let's talk about nothing but this sacred second at hand on this clock unseen pointing overhead to the face of the moon gone full and hungry for attention. Let this happen only now. Only then will we talk about where it's going.
Altamont was
her ravine
but her
rock leave
rift if
timber drove
her away
but stove 
verse finally
where she's
mine but
her arm
wore circ
when carpool
get through
this frothy
hollow again
A note on verbs
Nohémie Jan 2018
I catch myself daydreaming,
about myself but living
In another world
or an alternative universe
I think of all the possibilities
That you and me could be
Of all the scenarios
Where our paths would come close
I think of what if I was a San Francisco native?
Or what if I had build my life in Paris?
When would we meet?
When would you fit?
Because if I'm resurrected
If I come back from the dead
I would want you, guaranteed
Ain't that some greed?
Maksim Dec 2017
Come enter the darkness
Come witness a monster, a man
Of features of a rare creature
With a clear path for a seeker
With a life of a greeter. Stay warm in this cold world with heater
Away from the gangsters and strippers.
Join the growers and hipsters.
Free like in the Castro and Mission.
Always in the corner, being a loner, getting high like a stoner,
being awake unlike an employee and being free.
Don't you see the system of delusion where they draw the conclusion but it's time take back the power and find a resolution
And lead to a revolution
Josh Nov 2017

Absorbing dust and Golden heat,
living more openly than I do,
he shimmies to Billie Holiday

The year is not 1957, though
he lives in a San Francisco fog
longing to play the piano

The time in not 11:57pm, though
he orders a ***** martini & swims
in the fishbowl bay

Escaping to Telegraph Hill
to drink moonlight jazz & vermouth
he pretends to live

Way back when

I haven't wrote a poem in 2 years!
Next page