 I live in San Francisco where I was told I was going to have the dream California and socially liberal life and community and my reality does not match that dream. I live in a San Francisco where my neighborhood was once home to one of the strongest black populations in the city and now we're decreasing every single day. I live in a San Francisco where my neighborhood is plagued by homelessness where I walk down the street and I see people living in tents because their city cannot find affordable housing for them. I live in a San Francisco where I walk down the street and instead of feeling anger or disgust at the trash on the ground I feel sadness because I think about how people have nowhere else to go. I live in a San Francisco where every day my neighborhood is getting more and more gentrified where 25 years ago it was completely different from how it looks now and how today it doesn't serve the people of San Francisco, the people of my community but rather the people around here serve the transplants, the people coming in who work at Big Tech. I live in a San Francisco where all of my friends are moving out of the city because it's too expensive where I'm having less and less people to hang out and see every day because commuting to the city is too long of a drive. I live in a San Francisco where I was promised a dream California life and that expectation has not been met. I live in a San Francisco where I strive to make my community a better place every day but the city does not put its money where its mouth is. I live in a San Francisco where I don't know what to do at this point because my city is dying and it feels like everything I do is not working. Apparently too much of San Francisco was not there in the first place. This dream requires more condemned Africans or put another way state violence rises down or still life is just getting warmed up. Army life is looking for a new church and ignored all other suggestions or folktale writers have not made up their minds as to who is going to be their friends. You know this is the worst downtown yet and I've brought a cigarette everywhere. I've taken many a walk to the back of a bus that led on out the back of a storyteller's prison sentence then on out the back of slave scars but this is my comeback face. I left my watch on the public bathroom sink and took the toilet with me. Through it at the first bus I saw eating single mothers half alive and they flew through the bus line number then on out the front of the White House that hopefully you find comfort downtown but if not we brought you enough cigarette filters to make a decent winter coat. A special species of handshake, let's all know who's king and what's the lifespan of uniform cloth. This coffin needs to could act like those birds singing. Rusty nails have no wings, have no voice other than that of a white world dying. They're book pages in the gas pump. Catchy isn't it? The way Three Nuses is the rule or the way potato sack masks go so well with radio codes or the way condemned Africans fought their way back to the ocean. Only the fine waves made a 1920s burnt up piano parts, European backdoor deals and red flowers for widows who spent all day in the sun mumbling in San Francisco. Red flowers but what's the color of a doctor visit? You know there are book titles in the streets. Book titles like hero you make a better zero or a fur coat lady the president is dead or pay me back in children or they hung up their bodies in their own museums and other book titles pulled from a drum solo run here hero not at the hiding place all the bullets and 10 precincts know where to go there's no heaven nor any other good idea in the sky politics means that people did it and people do it. Understand that when in San Francisco and other places that was never really there I bet this ocean thinks it's an ocean but it's not it's just 60 mission street all know who's king king of thin things you know like America I'm proud to deserve to die. I'm going to eat my dinner extra slow tonight in this police state candy dispenser you all call the neighborhood no set of manners goes unpunished never mind the murderers insomnia or the tea kettle preparing everyone for police sirens the the the end