San Francisco has lost its soul,
in the name of a balanced budget.
There is also what we all depend on,
the tourist dollars they count and fudge it.
Change is the cry they always jingle,
to get themselves elected.
They make us think we need their angle,
because the city’s infected.
The people in charge have everyone fooled,
into believing that they are free.
but nothing could be more untrue,
if you look you too will see.
They sell us security and false hope,
but are really just liars and thugs.
All in the name of what they really scope,
Gold, Oil and control of all the Drugs.
The tourists come here looking as did I,
hoping to find some time in which to belong.
What they find as progress is that people can get high,
but still get a life sentence for just having a bong?
They come here daily already in love and from the moment they arrive,
are given maps and tour-guides to all of the objects of their misplaced affection.
They come here hoping to find something close to how we used to survive,
many leave with plenty of souvenirs and an unsettling sense of personal rejection.
Our biggest “Tourist Attraction” or otherwise amusement ride,
is another sign of a society way out of reality whack.
It once was a way to help the people who lived here and provide,
now it’s little more than revenue stream for City Stall desk jockeys to spend and track.
Sure it’s cute and it keeps the tourists coming,
with every ticket comes a much bigger invisible price.
Which by the way is the latest 19th century travel technology,
for the price of a round trip ticket and 2 scoops of creamed ice.
All for a ride with a little bell and a cute jing-a-ling-a-ling,.
that reminds them of back home and their box of shrimp friend rice.
If we are going to do it anyway we should so in with electromagnetic pulsation,
they keep on coming which they’re going to do anyway and keep snapping pictures as they pass.
The attention of the world will be upon us once again as we carry the pulse and the minds of a nation,
the trolly may work fine for the tourists but for those who live here the hills are still a pain in the ass.
The art scene here would be laughable,
if it weren’t so pitiful and unbelievably sad.
The greater tragedy of this part of the fable,
is that everywhere else it’s just as bad.
Buyers with dollars and nobody to trust in the end,
with a market with no rules and everything sounds like a cheer.
It’s the ones with a hammer at the other end of the pen,
who maintain the prices and control them with fear.
I’ve never been to Alcatraz and there I never will see,
I seek no beauty in a chamber of pain with hoodies and an audio tour,
What needs to replace this old and ugly monstrosity,
is a futuristic reminder of what we are willing to endure,
and show how the perfect world is going to be.
For most of the tourists anything will do like they say,
they really want to say that they did this and that with pride.
Standing in lines for things they really shouldn’t even pay,
always paying for the t-shirt with the smile and glide.
They can now go home and wear it to display,
that they too went on the San Francisco ride.
That’s what we’ve become and it’s been like this for a while,
we have two choices that seem easy for to me and us to make.
Stick with the past and make history our trade in the name of denile,
The second choice has already been made behind your back and this time with nothing that’s fake,
the artists are taking over again but this time with mba’s, engineering degrees with much better fashion and style.
Selected as 2012 Poem of the Year by Books Inc. San Francisco (Castro)