Good Morning

Monday 5:35am: I’m rolling the Fillmore strip up in well-to-do Pac Heights. And I cruise by the usual suspects; cops, affluent retirees – with their Golden Retrievers, and mansion contractors – in their glowing orange vests, all procuring caffeine at

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I Hear…

I hear children playing, their screams and laughter echoing across tenement cinder blocks. I hear the crow’s caw and the robin’s chirp, as cars whoosh Doppler down the street, intermittent. I hear the hum of a refrigerator, and a jet

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Fuck You

You drive an Audi. A new model, blackĀ  SUV… with ski racks. You cut me off, HARD, as I was crossing Mission Street on MY green. But you were sure to make quick eye contact through your shiny wraparounds first.

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