sun francisco.

one of these days, i'm gonna climb to the top of that bubblegumwrapper&cigarette throne i composed at age 17 in the middle of dying and i will tear open my sticky lips and let you all know once and for all that the rumours you read in the backs of your textbooks are true:

i'm Queen of the Bohemes, and there's pepper in my veins and a hole in my nose.

stomping like a clumsy troll-lette, cloaked as a tigress, i have only to blow the mane out of my eyes and throw my head to the skies for you to know i don't belong to anything but the grass, and i know you'll want to follow me. stalking, slink-sliding through the tall ferns and the street posts, legend has it i'll lead the revolution of this urban forest back to the hippiedaisical mythology of open-toed shoes and still more open romantic lip-smacking. you've just got to muddle through how easy it is to hate someone like me and hum through the stares thrown on people with good posture like that and believe that there's actually a spot of sun in this city we can lie in where people will stop standing to watch us and start joining us. then we can stick out our tongues and play tambourine music and our ragtag royalty will reign unwisely for one whole skipping-school day, and you'll just get it.