souls of san francisco

souls of san francisco

the souls of Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Garcia
can be felt
standing at the corner
of Haight and Ashbury…

cars move by
seemingly motionless…

mid-morning grey clouds
shroud the reality
of transgressors on market street
raping us in some way,
whether or not we realize it,
or believe it…

and the people,
all the f-ing people,
walked by exerting
no emotion for today’s toils…

tribulations relegated to triteness
while legs extending from some roof
overstate the litter-ridden avenue
here…

my god, here
the establishment kills us
as much as we perpetuate
its existence through rebellion…

here, as much as any place else,
but more so here
because the hippies have succumbed
to the bmw dealers,
and the artist sells their soul
for some gold…

critics comment on trivialities
of perceptive cognizance…

a godless interpretation of the arts,
of the crossroads,
with senseless machinations
of right brain,
left brain
dichotomies of existence…

neither one of us understands
our perceived enemies
and none of us understands
our perceived lovers…

the dichotomy
of the conservative and the liberal,
the rich and the poor,
and you and i…
yes, you and i…
we are one in soul…

and we are separate…