Jack Kerouac would have never hung out at Vesuvio's. Lenny Bruce would've never have worked in San Francisco. None of the jazz clubs would have opened if the city was like it is now. The great jam sessions would never happen. Nobody would have listened. "Howl" would have never been read, never been published. It just would have been doodling on a legal pad in an oriental alley, and would have never been any good; it would have sucked. (Escape #1)
(Escape #2) "San Francisco 2009" is a phantom souvenir. It's an apparition of mental and emotional defiance. It's a city of cheap melodramatic memorabilia. It's a piece of costume jewelry. It's an over-sized, over-blown, over-hyped, over-populated, over-charged postcard. It's an amusement park with no amusement, appealing to asexual bored and boring new-agers, an entertainment centerpiece for phony adult sex with a hypnotic-induced, IV-infused memory that was never a memory, but only an experiment. (Escape #3)
(Escape #4) San Francisco today is a wafer-thin skin-and-bones male priest smoking in the confessional trying to decide between masturbating against his obsessions, or sleeping alongside a visiting fat man from the Vatican: an ugly, balding useless used car salesman with a telemarketing con who lived everywhere below Market and 3rd as an addicted poltergeist impersonator. The priest was a murderer with a thin shadow that hid in doorways, making out with a disembodied love-goddess resembling facsimiles of dead artists, dead writers, poets, dead jazz trumpet players who sang, "My Funny Valentine" and photographers, publishers, drunks, drug addicts, comedians, and dead rock stars who moved out long ago. (Escape #5)
(Escape #6) They said goodbye to the hypertension power lines and turned their backs against the wind constipated from eating crack. They washed their face to hide black rings around their eyes listening to Harry James get sucked into the sentimental mid-western, non-black middle class suburban lifestyle. San Francisco 2009 is a Warfare-not-Welfare summer retreat sleeping with a vagina, pressed down, shaken together and running over every female whore and slut who spreads excitement for Jesus, lapping her sucking spit, face-sucking pimples right off the blackheads of her plastic face, grinding her teeth thru the night, grinding them into the shape of a crucifix with aluminum-plated braces pumping oral gratifiers down her long, narrow, virgin sperm-free firm, shapely, long, slender, tan throat. (Escape #7)
(Escape #8) I used to love the fog and would have stayed for that slippery dampness if it would have been authentic fog instead of a tourist con; even wet grey and white clouds stopped coming around; even jazz singer, jazz crooner Tony Bennett promised never to sing about the heart he left behind, because it was the heart that made all the noise and it was the last heart with a rosy hue, and it was replaced by the sound of a solar clock from a microwave oven. San Francisco doesn't have a heart anyway; apparently it can live without one. It hasn't had a heart for years and nobody ever noticed. The big tourist attraction was a fake heart fitted with a peculiarly large pace-maker programmed to skip beats then stop, reboot, restart, stop again and restart. This was a favorite tourist con. (Escape #9)
(Escape #10) The city has no passion. Intestinal cement and steel glue was poured into old places. It has no real-life pulse that can be felt. All it is now is just a tikity-tokity-tokity-tikity irregular beating almost a whisper, almost as soft as softly as in a morning sunrise with that make-believe west coast sunset beach that puts me to sleep after I'd been awake for a several days; but not anymore, because that's part of the lost memorabilia.
People who work here don't really work here, not like Salt Lake or Detroit. In San Francisco, they play a con game dressed up in a discount party-atmosphere. They wear a cultural "garb" period-costume pieces, like old-time leathery-hippy outfits, or slick hipster mirror-image dirty faces, head shot photographs carried under one arm with creatures and voices nobody else can hear, sarcastic and cynical HIV-positive hip cats zoot suit Chinamen skeletons wearing colorless necklaces, colorless shapeless hairpieces, knee high boots, rip torn temptation-driven miniskirts and those sexy long black eye lashes matching the color of shoe strings tied around their ankles and their necks. (Room #72, North Beach Hotel)
Streets have the same names as before but the real essentials of the city aren't the street names but whatever it was that made San Francisco a place to be from. The essences have been replaced degraded disgraced with Spanish-American motif essentials common to other dull places like San Diego, Seattle, Portland, Burbank, Santa Fe, Reno. San Jose....anyplace that could be any other place without trying. I never know where I am; it's like going to a Safeway, a Wal-Greens, a Wal-Mart, a K-Mart in any city, twenty-four hours a day, any day of the week, in any part of the country at any time and you can't tell the difference between one place and another. When you go to pay your potato chips and beer, you wouldn't know if you're in Boulder City, Needles, or Las Vegas; you'd be in San Francisco and never know it, because there are no essentials anymore that make San Francisco a space. It's a space but it's not a spaceship. It's an empty black hole space, a white noise space, a crowded bus space, a crowded elevator space. Crowded. Cramped. Hungry. Paranoid space built on cheap illegal counterfeit US Navy landfill space that can't hold up a strong earthquake.
The San Francisco Bay harbor and beautiful brightly lit skyline, even scary old Alcatraz are famous landmarks and points of interest but they're nothing really but used canvases dug up from an alley somewhere. It's a loose fitting canvas of sticky dry paint, semi-abstract commercial wallpaper scraped off the walls from a cheap hotel, mediocre replicas vaguely vulgar renditions of art, but instead of fifteen minutes of fame it's a bus pass that'll take you to a dead prostitute, a dead hooker, or a toothless-rotted-out-mouth-cum-sucking-vitamin-destroyed sex-giver, not a care-giver, who's banged and sucked her way to be a poster child for a poster city. San Francisco is nothing but a souvenir hunter, a type of Mexican-Indian-Jew, a type of middle-class evangelical-charismatic revivalist, a type of credit-card-pinching-lying-tax-dodging-patriotic-rightwing-extremist and proud centrist soccer-mom, a type of secret alcoholic flag-waving member of her most faithful church on a mission to stop adultery. They hate Kerouac and Ginsberg; idiot nerdy-America was ahead of its time out there on the farm. They knew it when they heard it and they heard it all and hated it all and killed them all: the jazz musicians, the drug dealers, the pot smokers.
They hated Lenny Bruce, Steve Allen, Burroughs, Ferlinghetti and Coltrane. They hated black Miles, black Max Roach, black Monk, black Basie, black Ornette, Bill Evans. San Francisco is a trinket to collect like matchbook covers and stamps, like fake bus stops, like fake trolley cars, like gangland slant-eyed Chinatown-mafia hit celebrations for the year of the "whatever". San Francisco is the best fake backboard, best fake book store, best fake coffee house and best fake windy ocean breeze. The steep hills and sidewalks are being leveled out and flattened like a swollen bulging stomach to make it easier for fat Americans fat beans-and-rice, arrogant slant-eyed biased, prejudiced, obnoxious, selfish, self-righteous, superiority-complexed Asians, and the mumbling whiny insincere complaining guilt-ridden, tear-stained old testament buried beneath a Judaism-mindset walking down the hills to Coit Tower which already stinks of religion.
Vesuvio's Cafe is a place where the tourists are too scared to go inside or stand outside and sit down, or go upstairs, use the toilet, drink the water, watch TV, order something to drink or eat peanuts. Homosexual sluts, transgender female impersonators and male castrated Grand Masters of the Dungeon tell wild sex stories about the bad old days and the dope addict jazz muicians who raped daughters and wives and got away with it while their husbands watched drunk. They snap their phony photos with their wide smiles plastered across their clean-shaven face like sterile toothpaste. They grin and show their white teeth for thirty seconds and then get the hell out of there, walk away fast and don't look back, walk in the opposite direction, get away and never come back. San Francisco has become that kind of place: a speechless town. Not even language is spoken here.
San Francisco was intellectually buried in a black hole, a black-pot-hole in a vacant lot cars buses, taxis with their radio's broadcasting pick-ups in the Fillmore, trucks diving off the road around the Cliff House. It's not even an empty scenic town. Once the music is gone the sax stands on its head and starts a nose bleed, or a brain bleed because of the bruises on his body, bruises all over his body because his blood platelets fell to less than 2000 and he almost died; but once the soul is gone, what's the point? The thing is gone, and I do mean "thing" and it's not there.
San Francisco is a small man with big plans. It's a small man's world with a fat man wearing big pants. It's a small minded man with a big city idea. It's a small man caught lying about a big circus clown's big top-big town. It's a big man wearing big black small man's underwear. It's a big town eating a small man's thongs. San Francisco is a big tall man walking taller and wearing little man pants crawling slowly away on his knees like a small man's large. It's a skinny town filled with fat men. It's a big man's balls who wear a large small athletic cup on his small man's penis. It's a small man's bad breath blowing a large man's big and large ding-dong woody. It's a small man wearing a tall small and big fat. But the small man is still out there and he's trying to find the large man where he can hear the big fat man talk big fat and louder at the smaller fat clown when the fat man screams at the small man and they look at each other and pay no attention because that's what kind of a city San Francisco is, where nobody pays attention, because nothing goes on there that isn't a vague disguise, a phony con, a fake con, useless, worthless cold and wet con.
I stopped to listen to late night jazz in a hole on Green and didn't drink and didn't want to drink because there wasn't any jazz and I didn't want to be there. Old jazz used to play there. The sax talked a story with his horn. The snare drum hit the brushes like a washer and dryer inside a machine. What am I doing here? Someone asked me. It's a small fake world a small fake business to get my stomach flattened and tight and sexy brown skin Indian color. I love taking hot showers on every floor in the hotel being naked and wet taking photographs of myself running up the hallways outside the window and fall onto the sidewalk. There's no point to it; not to anything. The whole earth is ready to explode ready to say goodbye Mexican Rose, you can't keep the Ring. I'm wearing the Ring you're not getting it back. I'm wearing it forever because the Black Rose Ring is what I want.
The nurses said they were sorry. There's nothing they can do except send squads of cops. That nurse gave me a real sick feeling with a dirty needle trying to get some blood where there wasn't a vein. "You said something you didn't mean!" What? "A sixty year old gentleman is a musician and he is very anxious!" I had a piece of string tied around my neck, hanging from the ceiling. It was their bad behavior that provoked me. Everything upset me and made matters worse.
All great revolutionary music turns into simple commercial jingles at some point, short catchy melodies commercial tunes; it's all a con. San Francisco is a con, a big con, a scam, a scheme, a laundromat gallery of dirty wet clothes, a carnival ride that breaks down, costs too much, ends too soon, never starts fast enough. The essence of intellectual viciousness is about the a big con dressed in a suit speaking prophecies with a full metal jacket of mental disease with fat pudgy fingers standing in a fat pudgy gesture of pudgy love of pedophilia.
San Francisco is the leather gun, a strap-on dildo concealed weapon under the shoulder between the legs, worn in the belt, worn under the belt buckle walking in the Tenderloin's final goodbye, like reaching for it to squeeze it to touch the package, that was his final "goodbye"! I'm still not drinking, still not drunk, still not stoned, still sitting here at the bar Kerouac probably wouldn't even sit in, wouldn't even walk in.
I sit in this bar paying for water and I a cloud of darkness comes over me, my emotions, demanding more than I have. San Francisco has had a "alteration de la personalite" among the sick, the feeling of loss of power and confinement is enough to inspire belief in God. The city is cluttered with parking lots, cluttered with bars: all I see is cheap nick-knack clutter, dust attracting clutter sexual mutilation compelled to taste fresh blood, like the vampire he's always wanted to be.
Mediocrity swept thru the city in an invasion of religious believers, the most naive and backwards of the species of man today. What we need is more rituals to pound out a beat, a little con with sickening mind-bugging moral values that reek debasement of man so bad and horrifically stale and dry that the moral values of western religion has castrated mankind's intimate personhood, castrated San Francisco's intimacy making it a pocketbook guide to interesting places nobody cares about, ever heard of and ever thinks about.
I used to think my photos were a function of being creative; I thought maybe I was compelled; cause and effect were split up backwards and upside down, like the old rugged crucifixion cross: it ought to be turned right side up, head on the bottom, feet on the top, arms and hands out to the side, blood flowing up, not down. An anti-gravity miracle of God, performed as an act of will. I was anxiety-driven not creativity-driven. Music was depression-driven. Anxiety-driven behaviors might be constructive and produce "good works", according to St. Paul, that great infamous Catholic Jew, who, if he had a digital camera, would've taken commercial photos of great mementos of Christ, pretentious and fake!!
San Francisco is a mutilation of paper. It's a holy lie. It's compared to the weakest and most subhuman afterlife possible. Before San Francisco turn into an afterlife, it's a grave site for the deaf, a sanctuary for the blind, a dog house for the lame, a barbershop for the cripple, a beauty parlor for those people with bad breath, who should sleep in a straight jacket, street sweepers. And now it's all quiet. Nobody is talking. All there is left is the lobby and the sidewalk shadows and phantoms wandering in and out of the Chinese herb stores tapping the fat American beast on the shoulder asking for money. San Francisco has turned into an injection. It's turned into an anxious infection eating away at the bone marrow. San Francisco used to be a "used to be", but now it's a "time to leave, time to go". It's become what it was always meant to be: an after-birth by the bay, a still life, an abortion burning at the edges, a cancer victim, a wheel-chair bound handicap person racing down one of the steep hills without a break.
My body was and is a chemical plant and it's killing flowers where ever I walk if there's flowers around me, and I stand near the flowers, they die at least they die mentally in my mind or my idea of my mind; they probably don't really die. I just kill them with the stench of the smell of the chemicals coming out of my skin; but that's not true either. I've got bad breath, too and even my dad can smell it all the way from the grave. His grave is in Montana and I don't have a grave but if I did it wouldn't be in San Francisco because he could smell my bad breath all the way from there to here. No, it'd be in Nashville and it would be an ash can, not a grave. It mustn't be too deep either to put the ash can in. I never stuck my feet in my dad's grave. I wonder how loud the rock music really is when you're buried in the dirt.
(Escape #2) "San Francisco 2009" is a phantom souvenir. It's an apparition of mental and emotional defiance. It's a city of cheap melodramatic memorabilia. It's a piece of costume jewelry. It's an over-sized, over-blown, over-hyped, over-populated, over-charged postcard. It's an amusement park with no amusement, appealing to asexual bored and boring new-agers, an entertainment centerpiece for phony adult sex with a hypnotic-induced, IV-infused memory that was never a memory, but only an experiment. (Escape #3)
(Escape #4) San Francisco today is a wafer-thin skin-and-bones male priest smoking in the confessional trying to decide between masturbating against his obsessions, or sleeping alongside a visiting fat man from the Vatican: an ugly, balding useless used car salesman with a telemarketing con who lived everywhere below Market and 3rd as an addicted poltergeist impersonator. The priest was a murderer with a thin shadow that hid in doorways, making out with a disembodied love-goddess resembling facsimiles of dead artists, dead writers, poets, dead jazz trumpet players who sang, "My Funny Valentine" and photographers, publishers, drunks, drug addicts, comedians, and dead rock stars who moved out long ago. (Escape #5)
(Escape #6) They said goodbye to the hypertension power lines and turned their backs against the wind constipated from eating crack. They washed their face to hide black rings around their eyes listening to Harry James get sucked into the sentimental mid-western, non-black middle class suburban lifestyle. San Francisco 2009 is a Warfare-not-Welfare summer retreat sleeping with a vagina, pressed down, shaken together and running over every female whore and slut who spreads excitement for Jesus, lapping her sucking spit, face-sucking pimples right off the blackheads of her plastic face, grinding her teeth thru the night, grinding them into the shape of a crucifix with aluminum-plated braces pumping oral gratifiers down her long, narrow, virgin sperm-free firm, shapely, long, slender, tan throat. (Escape #7)
(Escape #8) I used to love the fog and would have stayed for that slippery dampness if it would have been authentic fog instead of a tourist con; even wet grey and white clouds stopped coming around; even jazz singer, jazz crooner Tony Bennett promised never to sing about the heart he left behind, because it was the heart that made all the noise and it was the last heart with a rosy hue, and it was replaced by the sound of a solar clock from a microwave oven. San Francisco doesn't have a heart anyway; apparently it can live without one. It hasn't had a heart for years and nobody ever noticed. The big tourist attraction was a fake heart fitted with a peculiarly large pace-maker programmed to skip beats then stop, reboot, restart, stop again and restart. This was a favorite tourist con. (Escape #9)
(Escape #10) The city has no passion. Intestinal cement and steel glue was poured into old places. It has no real-life pulse that can be felt. All it is now is just a tikity-tokity-tokity-tikity irregular beating almost a whisper, almost as soft as softly as in a morning sunrise with that make-believe west coast sunset beach that puts me to sleep after I'd been awake for a several days; but not anymore, because that's part of the lost memorabilia.
People who work here don't really work here, not like Salt Lake or Detroit. In San Francisco, they play a con game dressed up in a discount party-atmosphere. They wear a cultural "garb" period-costume pieces, like old-time leathery-hippy outfits, or slick hipster mirror-image dirty faces, head shot photographs carried under one arm with creatures and voices nobody else can hear, sarcastic and cynical HIV-positive hip cats zoot suit Chinamen skeletons wearing colorless necklaces, colorless shapeless hairpieces, knee high boots, rip torn temptation-driven miniskirts and those sexy long black eye lashes matching the color of shoe strings tied around their ankles and their necks. (Room #72, North Beach Hotel)
Streets have the same names as before but the real essentials of the city aren't the street names but whatever it was that made San Francisco a place to be from. The essences have been replaced degraded disgraced with Spanish-American motif essentials common to other dull places like San Diego, Seattle, Portland, Burbank, Santa Fe, Reno. San Jose....anyplace that could be any other place without trying. I never know where I am; it's like going to a Safeway, a Wal-Greens, a Wal-Mart, a K-Mart in any city, twenty-four hours a day, any day of the week, in any part of the country at any time and you can't tell the difference between one place and another. When you go to pay your potato chips and beer, you wouldn't know if you're in Boulder City, Needles, or Las Vegas; you'd be in San Francisco and never know it, because there are no essentials anymore that make San Francisco a space. It's a space but it's not a spaceship. It's an empty black hole space, a white noise space, a crowded bus space, a crowded elevator space. Crowded. Cramped. Hungry. Paranoid space built on cheap illegal counterfeit US Navy landfill space that can't hold up a strong earthquake.
The San Francisco Bay harbor and beautiful brightly lit skyline, even scary old Alcatraz are famous landmarks and points of interest but they're nothing really but used canvases dug up from an alley somewhere. It's a loose fitting canvas of sticky dry paint, semi-abstract commercial wallpaper scraped off the walls from a cheap hotel, mediocre replicas vaguely vulgar renditions of art, but instead of fifteen minutes of fame it's a bus pass that'll take you to a dead prostitute, a dead hooker, or a toothless-rotted-out-mouth-cum-sucking-vitamin-destroyed sex-giver, not a care-giver, who's banged and sucked her way to be a poster child for a poster city. San Francisco is nothing but a souvenir hunter, a type of Mexican-Indian-Jew, a type of middle-class evangelical-charismatic revivalist, a type of credit-card-pinching-lying-tax-dodging-patriotic-rightwing-extremist and proud centrist soccer-mom, a type of secret alcoholic flag-waving member of her most faithful church on a mission to stop adultery. They hate Kerouac and Ginsberg; idiot nerdy-America was ahead of its time out there on the farm. They knew it when they heard it and they heard it all and hated it all and killed them all: the jazz musicians, the drug dealers, the pot smokers.
They hated Lenny Bruce, Steve Allen, Burroughs, Ferlinghetti and Coltrane. They hated black Miles, black Max Roach, black Monk, black Basie, black Ornette, Bill Evans. San Francisco is a trinket to collect like matchbook covers and stamps, like fake bus stops, like fake trolley cars, like gangland slant-eyed Chinatown-mafia hit celebrations for the year of the "whatever". San Francisco is the best fake backboard, best fake book store, best fake coffee house and best fake windy ocean breeze. The steep hills and sidewalks are being leveled out and flattened like a swollen bulging stomach to make it easier for fat Americans fat beans-and-rice, arrogant slant-eyed biased, prejudiced, obnoxious, selfish, self-righteous, superiority-complexed Asians, and the mumbling whiny insincere complaining guilt-ridden, tear-stained old testament buried beneath a Judaism-mindset walking down the hills to Coit Tower which already stinks of religion.
Vesuvio's Cafe is a place where the tourists are too scared to go inside or stand outside and sit down, or go upstairs, use the toilet, drink the water, watch TV, order something to drink or eat peanuts. Homosexual sluts, transgender female impersonators and male castrated Grand Masters of the Dungeon tell wild sex stories about the bad old days and the dope addict jazz muicians who raped daughters and wives and got away with it while their husbands watched drunk. They snap their phony photos with their wide smiles plastered across their clean-shaven face like sterile toothpaste. They grin and show their white teeth for thirty seconds and then get the hell out of there, walk away fast and don't look back, walk in the opposite direction, get away and never come back. San Francisco has become that kind of place: a speechless town. Not even language is spoken here.
San Francisco was intellectually buried in a black hole, a black-pot-hole in a vacant lot cars buses, taxis with their radio's broadcasting pick-ups in the Fillmore, trucks diving off the road around the Cliff House. It's not even an empty scenic town. Once the music is gone the sax stands on its head and starts a nose bleed, or a brain bleed because of the bruises on his body, bruises all over his body because his blood platelets fell to less than 2000 and he almost died; but once the soul is gone, what's the point? The thing is gone, and I do mean "thing" and it's not there.
San Francisco is a small man with big plans. It's a small man's world with a fat man wearing big pants. It's a small minded man with a big city idea. It's a small man caught lying about a big circus clown's big top-big town. It's a big man wearing big black small man's underwear. It's a big town eating a small man's thongs. San Francisco is a big tall man walking taller and wearing little man pants crawling slowly away on his knees like a small man's large. It's a skinny town filled with fat men. It's a big man's balls who wear a large small athletic cup on his small man's penis. It's a small man's bad breath blowing a large man's big and large ding-dong woody. It's a small man wearing a tall small and big fat. But the small man is still out there and he's trying to find the large man where he can hear the big fat man talk big fat and louder at the smaller fat clown when the fat man screams at the small man and they look at each other and pay no attention because that's what kind of a city San Francisco is, where nobody pays attention, because nothing goes on there that isn't a vague disguise, a phony con, a fake con, useless, worthless cold and wet con.
I stopped to listen to late night jazz in a hole on Green and didn't drink and didn't want to drink because there wasn't any jazz and I didn't want to be there. Old jazz used to play there. The sax talked a story with his horn. The snare drum hit the brushes like a washer and dryer inside a machine. What am I doing here? Someone asked me. It's a small fake world a small fake business to get my stomach flattened and tight and sexy brown skin Indian color. I love taking hot showers on every floor in the hotel being naked and wet taking photographs of myself running up the hallways outside the window and fall onto the sidewalk. There's no point to it; not to anything. The whole earth is ready to explode ready to say goodbye Mexican Rose, you can't keep the Ring. I'm wearing the Ring you're not getting it back. I'm wearing it forever because the Black Rose Ring is what I want.
The nurses said they were sorry. There's nothing they can do except send squads of cops. That nurse gave me a real sick feeling with a dirty needle trying to get some blood where there wasn't a vein. "You said something you didn't mean!" What? "A sixty year old gentleman is a musician and he is very anxious!" I had a piece of string tied around my neck, hanging from the ceiling. It was their bad behavior that provoked me. Everything upset me and made matters worse.
All great revolutionary music turns into simple commercial jingles at some point, short catchy melodies commercial tunes; it's all a con. San Francisco is a con, a big con, a scam, a scheme, a laundromat gallery of dirty wet clothes, a carnival ride that breaks down, costs too much, ends too soon, never starts fast enough. The essence of intellectual viciousness is about the a big con dressed in a suit speaking prophecies with a full metal jacket of mental disease with fat pudgy fingers standing in a fat pudgy gesture of pudgy love of pedophilia.
San Francisco is the leather gun, a strap-on dildo concealed weapon under the shoulder between the legs, worn in the belt, worn under the belt buckle walking in the Tenderloin's final goodbye, like reaching for it to squeeze it to touch the package, that was his final "goodbye"! I'm still not drinking, still not drunk, still not stoned, still sitting here at the bar Kerouac probably wouldn't even sit in, wouldn't even walk in.
I sit in this bar paying for water and I a cloud of darkness comes over me, my emotions, demanding more than I have. San Francisco has had a "alteration de la personalite" among the sick, the feeling of loss of power and confinement is enough to inspire belief in God. The city is cluttered with parking lots, cluttered with bars: all I see is cheap nick-knack clutter, dust attracting clutter sexual mutilation compelled to taste fresh blood, like the vampire he's always wanted to be.
Mediocrity swept thru the city in an invasion of religious believers, the most naive and backwards of the species of man today. What we need is more rituals to pound out a beat, a little con with sickening mind-bugging moral values that reek debasement of man so bad and horrifically stale and dry that the moral values of western religion has castrated mankind's intimate personhood, castrated San Francisco's intimacy making it a pocketbook guide to interesting places nobody cares about, ever heard of and ever thinks about.
I used to think my photos were a function of being creative; I thought maybe I was compelled; cause and effect were split up backwards and upside down, like the old rugged crucifixion cross: it ought to be turned right side up, head on the bottom, feet on the top, arms and hands out to the side, blood flowing up, not down. An anti-gravity miracle of God, performed as an act of will. I was anxiety-driven not creativity-driven. Music was depression-driven. Anxiety-driven behaviors might be constructive and produce "good works", according to St. Paul, that great infamous Catholic Jew, who, if he had a digital camera, would've taken commercial photos of great mementos of Christ, pretentious and fake!!
San Francisco is a mutilation of paper. It's a holy lie. It's compared to the weakest and most subhuman afterlife possible. Before San Francisco turn into an afterlife, it's a grave site for the deaf, a sanctuary for the blind, a dog house for the lame, a barbershop for the cripple, a beauty parlor for those people with bad breath, who should sleep in a straight jacket, street sweepers. And now it's all quiet. Nobody is talking. All there is left is the lobby and the sidewalk shadows and phantoms wandering in and out of the Chinese herb stores tapping the fat American beast on the shoulder asking for money. San Francisco has turned into an injection. It's turned into an anxious infection eating away at the bone marrow. San Francisco used to be a "used to be", but now it's a "time to leave, time to go". It's become what it was always meant to be: an after-birth by the bay, a still life, an abortion burning at the edges, a cancer victim, a wheel-chair bound handicap person racing down one of the steep hills without a break.
My body was and is a chemical plant and it's killing flowers where ever I walk if there's flowers around me, and I stand near the flowers, they die at least they die mentally in my mind or my idea of my mind; they probably don't really die. I just kill them with the stench of the smell of the chemicals coming out of my skin; but that's not true either. I've got bad breath, too and even my dad can smell it all the way from the grave. His grave is in Montana and I don't have a grave but if I did it wouldn't be in San Francisco because he could smell my bad breath all the way from there to here. No, it'd be in Nashville and it would be an ash can, not a grave. It mustn't be too deep either to put the ash can in. I never stuck my feet in my dad's grave. I wonder how loud the rock music really is when you're buried in the dirt.
