 This is a Broadway Hill bow hose. Red and green parrots burst from Senora de Guadalupe's eucalypti at Broadway Tunnel Hilltop, flocking crazy zigzags across the sky. In noisy fall apart come together. Above church school gates is shrieking crush of children. Bouncing laughter up, up, up hillside steps suffuses my descent past old flowing beard. Billy goat, boho, inshirtless cloud of funky sex musk, pegging biku stick in path to sun. His horny eyes attention, all on my tank top breast, slows the moment, but breaking in, a sudden eclipse. Boho number two, Chinese twin pointed gray beard cloaked in biku muteness, wearing black wrap shades pushes bicycle up, handlebars tied with twin pink plastic bags. Powell Street takeout on one side for aging mother, found cans for quarters, the other bearing his burden home. My eyes telescoping worn buildings cakewalk, down either side of the street, the slot, Broadway's long, long skip and slip to sweep of bridge, and Bayes Hills crimped rise, the keyhole sky, the key slides down the slot, tumblers spin, my hand is on the key, arc of rays hit, fovea centralis, macula lutea, the key and the keyhole, it's me I see, telescope down the slot, opening, opening, walking, projecting, film strip of cellular light bodies pasted to face front, a box of light lit from circuits of somewhere, creating, creating from tunnel to bay, face full of Broadway, eye full of being, bronze filigree, tunnel mouse, river of sound, school buses, taxis, motorcycles coming up through me, cam, po, HK greasy spoon, sip bar and lounge, red lights, green lights, ocean pearl restaurants, gray foam sidewalk scrub brushes, punctuating traffic, great men trading, lucky star discount, we do-si-do, casino billboard hotslots, gushing crazy sevens, floating Ben Franklin's uphill and down, HK Anna Herron Beauty, bling-bling cosmetics, pet central TV BI, we all go do-si-do, Broadway dim sum, King UN projects in a lazy reel, the Sam Wong Hotel, Big Al's, the Condor, crosswalk to crosswalk, and Garden of Eden flashing neon taste of paradise, millions and billions kaleidoscopic human peddling, brief cloud of oyster sauce, a flourage, all graffiti vegetable trucks from here to Shanghai, red wall of double decker of fire engine howl, deep horn blasts all doing the street corner do-si-do, diesel engines huffing, crossing Broadway forever, the hum of creation, seeing it all flying out of time, not even seeking yet picked up by serpent's tail, carried in a flick of movement, yes, the outflowing and convergence fusing movement with the moment, light shooting onto the big nerve fiber screen, I'm creating it, seagulls drifting, distant deeply planted bridge feet, port of Oakland crane towers, white dazzle lineup, behemoth Trojan horses of trade, wading tide flats in formation, looming black, Mount Diableta tit, tugboat, fireboat, tuna boat, sailboats, crinkle of blue satin, diamond ship glitter, sea spew, resting yet not contained, it's a God's eye scene, and now forming, recoalescing, walking down the loping, twist and curve, I find myself the only as she-bikku ever to skip and trip the slot, and ruminating, road-riding dharma boys scribbling she-devils and tantric sex goddesses of plenty, yet I find nary a bikuni nun, and down at the dock on the bay, seagulls hover low and screech and scree at happy couples' babies' jump-ups, arms flapping screeching, louder yet louder screes as china seamen with old transistor lean-smoking grooving to tinny Hong Kong disco, and all now grooving at the dock on the bay, lapping, container ship waves, rhythmic sea slapping, and I say, yes, yes, it is me, the only as she-bikku ever casting self upon Posey's page, the only one so named, yes, I am Broadway Hill Boho number three.