San Francisco—Days ('68)

I lived on the second floor of the old mansion,

in San Francisco ('68) Dolores Street in the attic, lived a young hippie girl, my age

(twenty or so); pregnant—, her stud, heartless he'd let her alone, sleep on that mattress

night and day, until he came home; it was a ting brutal, listening to that crying, crying,

moaning, on that mattress she lay. We talked a lot back then, and were friends.

One day she just up and left, that was it.

Dan's brother was balling some young 'gal,'

so he called her, from the East. She was as pretty as a peach. And I was

getting horny as a dog with two dicks, watching everybody feast on female flesh.

And then I met Karen, she was thirty-two;

and we balled for six-weeks, like fools. (Screwed until we fell to sleep, like sheep.)

She ended up renting the room next to mine and Dan's room, my friend. And it wasn't long

before she took a liking to him. In-between all this, she'd say, "You love to

screw, don't you ever rest?” A rhetorical question I thought at best; of course I did,

when I'd pass out!

It was kind of a muddy romance at its finest

(she had the money and Cadillac): crowned with oblivion—she took a liking

for Dan, and balled him mad (gave him whatever he asked for, and then some). My

floodlights went on, and Dan told her "No more,” and she told me: "I wasn't hers”

and I told myself, "Where's the beer?”

#1254 2/28/06

Note: I wrote the book, "Romancing San Francisco,” these recent poems on San Francisco, are the things I never put into book, but will be put into a forth coming book I expect. Dennis