Tuesday, November 26, 2013


His name is "Spike" the hardware-man said as he rang me up on his till
He had speared his friend, a fellow succulent only that morning as well

Spike was a cactus I saw on the street while I contemplated buying shoes
I knew he was mine when my eyes laid on him, I knew together we'd never lose

And so I carried him on the bus, from Haight to downtown SF
From there I took him into a coffee shop, and hid him under the desk

From the shop to the bathroom, and then to the Court, and even into a bar
He patiently waited while I played pool (I won by a fluke, it was gnar)

Finally it was time to take him home, to flourish next to his soon-to-be-friend plants
But as we descended into the gloom, Montgomery station proved stuffed as a fat man's pants

We nervously chuckled and waited for BART to alleviate the obscured tunnel
And as the next train rolled to a stop, we smooshed through doorways that acted as funnels

As the car packed fuller, full to the brim, the more and more panicked I got
I held Spike closer, and whispered to him, "this was a bad idea that we wrought"

As patrons of transit squished towards us, I cringed as bodies grew near
I said more than once, "I'm holding a cactus!" and people's faces turned in fear

Stop after stop (and even the tube) I sweated, vowing to impale myself first should need be
Finally MacArthur loomed towards us, and in a breath of fresh air we were free.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

All the Foreign Colors

I was meeting a friend in the city for dinner, and as per usual, I was early.  After spending time Instragramming a beautiful (and original) sunset, I made my way to the burrito shop.  After peering through the windows and determining that the members of my party had yet to arrive, I posted up across the way, learning against a graffitied wall to read my book.
When I read, I get lost in the material, and it wasn't until I sensed something, well, amiss did I look up from my activity. A man, long hair pulled back in a low pony under a small, brimless hat, holding a six pack of beer (and this may be my fanciful imagination, but I could swear he was also wearing a trench-coat) was standing next to me, and just unashamedly gazing at me.  Upon making eye contact he simply stated, "You look foreign."
I giggled, "Um, I'm not."
He continued, "It must be the haircut, you have the foreign haircut.  It also may be the colors you are wearing."
I laughed outright and gestured towards my outfit (blue skirt, grey nylons with knee high grey socks, goldenrod sweater all pulled together with a creamy white belt and boots) "I am wearing all the foreign colors?"
He briefly smiled, "Where do you live?"
I answered, "I live in Oakland"
"What brings you to San Francisco?" he asked.
"I am meeting some friends for dinner" I replied awkwardly.
"And what are you reading?"
"Oh, just the Bell Jar", I offered him the cover.
He smiled even more widely, "I thought you looked gentle, so I decided to say hello."
Again I laughed, "Well thanking you for saying hello!"
He started to move on, "Many blessings to you this night."
"And you as well!"I shook my head and continued with my reading.
I have a feeling that the Bay will suit me just fine.