Dictations from a walk

4.4.15 (Saturday)

Studio burn-out. Lace up, vape, hit the street. Warm breezy streets. hazy dream streets of sunshine Spring. Big red bridge clear, looming above big a white ship motoring out to sea, leaving The Bay. Clear day to see the giant ocean stretched out, Fulton Street easing down to choppy blue-gray blanket seascape, alive on inspection, and the horizon an arc stretching out for, how long? Earth so big, so small. Everything so. Sunlight slanting through cypress canopy, on cheeks above beard. Dappled sun. Golden Gate Park. Fire trucks, picnic smoke, lovers on a blanket, spring flowers backlit against the bright blue sky. White gulls of Hellman hollow above the painted green. Park bench. Diane di Prima's poem 350, hot rod gurgling by, slow raspy hot rod, easy Saturday, "galub galub galub," a dying planet beginning its descent, burnt orange racing stripe through the afternoon trees. Turn home. big girl in an orange blouse, her friend a wide brim floppy hat. Big dark girls on the sidewalk, loose, easy, weekend steps. Strut. Feel it. And back in my head, right on Cabrillo. Every moment brings us closer to death, lament, paranoia. An old woman shuffles from her house, struggles with the trashcan, blood-red knit shawl, shovels strange looks at me, weirdo dictating notes, fading into the abyss of the forgotten, soon.  Somehow the void always prevails. The perils of mistakes, or opportunities, depending, life always boiling down to half. Full. Through an open window a couple makes love, no, his moans alone. perhaps a man masturbating loudly, groans of sad desire, the pride of loneliness, spilling onto quiet suburban street. Richmond District, sunny, today. still streets, safety yellow lines across black pavement. 25th a commotion of motors racing down the hill. motors and more motors, and someday silence will reclaim this earth, and why? Motors. Always look both ways. Almost hit crossing street. Black Toyota minivan. Moldy cheese in a storm drain. Fancy cheese, just relax. Old hippie on 23rd. I love old hippies. Long gray hair. Still hasn't sold out to the man. When I'm old, I want to be a hippie. Further on, young professional woman with clopping steps, downhill, fighting momentum, digging in. High heels look miserable, sexy, indispensable. Across the street, a short old Asain man standing in doorway smoking cigarette watching me, cautiously. Or judging. I walk on, turn corner...street, my street, familiar hill, yellow house...steps, home. Paint brush.