What is the attraction of San Francisco Bridge?
Is it the flaming orange,
Of the black box, called the human mind
Which records all the turbulence.
And we bemoan a righteous death.
When we are as ominous as the smog
Curling into our eyes. We are moral freaks
And death is the height of our morality.
Of how we see the need of obliterating the pain
By taking some morphine.
How we are never gods in life
And yet we hold the power, just like God
To become one with an oblivion. How we sculpt
A body of darkness from one small rib.
And we forget how we dressed our dreams
With clown uniforms and made love
Like in a circus. Or how we raised a little seed
To a sapling of calcified bones and stringed flesh.
San Francisco, is where the cowards sing
Their elegies. Their laments. Of how
A million rays of light is not enough
For a black hole to swallow in an event horizon.
You don’t leave your heart in San Francisco
You only leave your fractured bones
Collected in body bags. When a zip, zips together a eulogy
Makes little zipping noises,
Informing the condemned soul,
Of the zip code to hell.
