San Francisco

I brought this back with me from the last trip to San Francisco:

I am Jack Kerouac
standing outside of the city tonight
a bar left of City Lights
Vesuvio! And something about a grass
hopper. Something about this
dance hall monitor.
And I howl because I haven't seen
a thing, no dirty minds destroyed and
no real promising seeds
just an unctuous voice and and
sifting through the breeze down
roots and canals down streets and up
trees. I am Jack Kerouac and I am
not one thing.

San Francisco murmured, treat car beat
random happy measurements one liter a pint
crammed in a shack with nothing on my
back but a sweaty t-shirt I soaked
through wiling away the hours on
this manuscript that only too me
three weeks (years) and I need a drink.
Need a drink? I have a drink! I am
Jack Kerouac, in my dreams I'm asleep.
I canned Jack Kerouac and sold him
as sardines. Stark raving lunatic and
jazz string quartet frenzy in a bottle
what an excuse what no relief!

and the jealous mad rage that part of
me I hate.
I saw it in the Sutro baths, abating times helper
until sunset carries it
Roar! of the ocean and everyone I'm with
is brilliant. They're all Jack Kerouac I
snap a photo to prove it. They all have
his face, smug smile blast together,
they all hug waists, jungles wild catch fever.
And I ride on down on down the road
away from fiction more towards Kerouac
less towards Dulouz.