cAlifornication

Its a dreary Saturday in San Francisco California. As I walk along Polk street my eyes behold the colorful mixup of degenerates begging for change, the occasional glamrock princess in gold spandex, the "hipster" defecating an intoxicated philosophy, the wannabe singer-songwriters and rock stars vomiting so called sexual vitality all over the sidewalks, right where it belongs with the shit and piss of the homeless.

One such singer-songwriter, a loner, lives two blocks from my middle class apartment in Nob Hill. This 42 year old boy, I once admired has made it very clear to me what money and self-loathing can do to a man. His words mean nothing. He sings of lost love that was never love at all, and of romance that is only a figment of his imagination. Doors Locked and one hand down the front of his pants, a 23 year old blonde girl has to make her escape from his closed off sanctuary of antiques, oddities, and perversion. I sit here, drink my coffee and digress of how happy I am that I am not that man; lonely and empty, trapped in his own prison, built by his own two hands, a foundation laid by his very lyrics that make him "known."