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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!
Tristan Brown Nov 2017
I’m going to be honest,
I’m not a love poet
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning
And decide that I really wanted to write about love
I swear that my first poem…
It would be about you

About how I loved you the same way
That I learned to ride a bike:
But reckless
With no training wheels or elbow pads
So my scars can tell you the story of how I fell for you
~Rudy Francisco

I’m not Rudy Francisco
But every man has his own words

So if I was a love poet
God knows I would still write about you
But I would write about how
That smile of yours might only last a moment
But I'll do everything I can to make it last a lifetime
And then... I will make sure it lasts an eternity

If I was a love poet
I would tell you how
You make all of my days
So I'll make it my duty to make all your tomorrows

I would tell you
That the sun rises each and every morning
Because it wants to see you
Because as bright as the sun is
It is blinded by your light
And you make me want to see
What blindness is really like
So I can look at you for the
Short moment before I lose my sight
Because then
Your image will always be with me

However, If I really cared
I would tell you
You’re better off alone
Than with me
Because I know
I know I’ll hurt you
And I can’t bare the thought of that

I would tell you
I’m not enough
And I never will be
Because enough isn’t in me

If I really cared
I would tell you
Because I don’t deserve the chance to speak to you

However to tell you any of this
You would have to be real
I heard Rudy's "Love Poem Medley", and I absoulutely loved it. It was my inspiration to write this one. I thought I would give him a small portion of the credit he deserves. Then I had to put my own twist on the work, so I could call this mine.
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