Sober Deliberations in San Francisco Fog

Addiction is an everyday give and take — and something to ruminate on (in poetic tones) while looking out on the fog in San Francisco.

Down the stairs,
Foghorns echo in orchestras
My skin and bones,
Teeth and tongue,
Hair and nails

A flicker of light,
Medicine cabinet open,
This feeling not an entirely foreign place,
A residence I know all too well

Fog out the window dense,
Benevolence enshrouded
Stillness as a city sleeps

This feeling at 3:14 a.m,
Addiction wears many heels

Heart to hand, chest to wall,
What a mercurial thing,
Bag of cells and elements and minerals

Golden Gate Park peaks into frame,
Unsheathed by wind, cool breeze in winter’s night
Unraveling behind glass pane
Underneath incandescent light

Here we are; no one has to know
Pill bottle in hand, cap opened
Eyes peer into orange cylinder, synthetic jewels
Looking down the barrel of a gun
Safety off; finger on trigger

Pause. Rewind. Remember.

Smile. Chest open. Fast forward.

The mind wanders toward temporary contentment,
Self-assured in telling jokes; these punchlines painted by age
Walked around promenades made of chains,
Coils of regret

Red flags tie knots around black turtle necks

Wrong people; that one man; the other man; cold shoulders in city streets, where iPhones sat silent; Austin, Texas bathed in painful candlelight

I remember grace stumbling
I hear regret screaming




Outside the realm of rumination; a mind on its rockers

Anew home, heavenly space
A San Francisco I can call mine;
This fog
Like a kind stranger
A woman, with sun-kissed cheeks
Red lips, dimples carved into face
Says my shirt is inside out

Right side in
Joy piercing through
Like cannonballs; first fall of snow

I can picture it
Finally, after all these days
From small Texas streets to
Bay Area city lights
Feels like home, somehow

Smile stretches, shoulders drop
Disposition sweetens,
This new oath

Medicine cabinet closed,
Traffic cone of a bottle in the trash;
Its remnants settle and travel
Like river rocks
Down the drain

Sacred prayer; how I swear

Back up the stairs
Body full of sensation
How fun to be thirty-one

All’s well that ends well,
Between San Francisco fog
And holy flesh.

Feature image: Courtesy of Flickr:skippyjon

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