San Francisco
San Francisco, where billboards of slop promote slop promotions,
impossible benefits from machine intelligences;
San Francisco, where the Dead reborn in golden Park,
to dance with perpetual stank
face to nitrous balloons and tie dye,
until Mickey Hart plays cosmic harp,
with shamanic visuals to drunk men,
pointing and chanting his name;
San Francisco, where half the cars are driven by ghosts,
and sometimes catch fire at night;
San Francisco, where the powerful have,
their souls caught in their throats,
from crackled-out platitudes and slogans.
San Francisco, where that Transamerican pencil pyramid is,
a backdrop for cinema-quality technology trailers,
signaling their city is the city of new religion.