michael-dean-k/

Beads of sun; Gradientless, cloudless, planeless sky; The physical slither of uncountable leaves colliding, nature’s white noise atop a distant boulevard rumble; Right now it's "peak human temperature," (a term shared by wife and I); Plus, dramatic shadows on tutors and illuminated bushes, perfectly trimmed Japanese hedge-gardened lawn and canopies glitter the grass 'round broken shards of angular sidewalk; Pushing the baby cart, with jabbing bumps not strong enough to wake the deep snooze, in a bassinet she'll soon outgrow; I have no agenda; I have no financial worry, creative worry, familial worry, no-one-liked-my-rushed-newsletter worry; It all collapses into the eye of a sparrow, into that one-hundred year tree fallen by lightning and blocking the path at C Park; I assume we'll get tacos soon; Whatever this is, now, feels like the supreme virtue: an earned negligence to the totality of material demands; A temporary and wonderlaced stupidity.

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.