Savage Coast

fog drifts in at dawn
beheld from a hotel
in a bleak, industrial
zone, waking after
a cross-ocean flight
to songs of old theater
in the dark, early hours
feeling the weight of time
drifting in loneliness
awaiting the shuttle
where a girl
with tattooed hands
chats on the phone
along a big freeway
to the train
which carries a few souls
through vandalized trenches
to a decayed, coastal outpost
where the pyramid
of Transamerica
fades into clouds
while in the world below
the downtrodden lurch
with faces of lost hope
among robot-driven cars
and schizos crawl
among the ruins
cursing invisible enemies
on the shabby sidewalks
a land of the unkempt
where pungent clouds seep
and birds pick at orange peels
under withered street signs
where cafes offer refuge
for three dollars a cup
and a man raves about
some American land
where he observes
they have plenty of guns
to keep the savages at bay

San Francisco, 2025