Love and power created on the San Francisco San Fran Frisco streets, my streets, your streets, our streets—my heart, mi corazon.

Up in the morning with the rising sun. Called up the brother and simply said VAMANOS! We cruised to the Marina and worked out because it is natural power and love to be strong and to feel the energy of others who work and feel themselves, their bodies, their temples. Afterwards, we met a French couple who had traveled the world in their 1960’s van! They had actually shipped it to the United States and had driven all through Canada, across the United States, and were headed to South America! We talked, laughed, loved 🙂 We then went to enjoy the Golden Gate Bridge. I brought a little speaker, we listened to oldies, we talked, learned, shared, wrote, too.

We cruised to Fisherman’s Wharf, parked, ate a little junk (Chinese corn dog and pot stickers), spread love, and helped people take pictures of themselves with the Monte Carlo, La Pura Neta. We mashed through North Beach, singing and smiling and nodding to the beloved perfect strangers on the streets. Blasted off to outer space, back to our planet, La Mision.  Met a Swiss-born man who also owns a 1972 Monte Carlo, a green one, and kicked it at the infamous international colorful Balmy Alley. He inherited the Monte Carlo two years ago from his grandmother who had owned since it was brand new! This song was booming. It is a salsa song called “San Francisco” and the words are precious and true, beautiful.

I did mural tours to so many different groups, loved ones who wanted to know about the murals and the Mission. These are some of the groups: three people from Spain, four Germans, two Frenchies, two Israelis, a big group of African American loved ones from Atlanta, and so many more. One man, a beautiful Mission vato loco, saw me, and just embraced me. He thought I was my deceased brother Jeff (we looked alike)! We started talking and he told me stories of adventures on 21^st Street and Folsom, inside of Jeff’s garage. He showed me the hair on his arms and they were standing. He swore I was Jeff. We laughed and hugged and knew the spirit was with us.

I then parted with everyone and cruised solo cholo, down 24^th, making a left on Bryant. I saw a super sharp African American gentleman, and I pulled over and told him to get in. He was so very beautiful and clean, and we talked and played Etta James, and he told me he was the one who named her!!!! He said her name is actually James Etta, and he told her she couldn’t have that name for music because it sounded like a boy’s name. He was a music producer in the Fillmore when it was known as the Harlem of the West Coast. He had me guess about his age, and I guessed 80, and he laughed, and told me he was 95 years old! I loved him, and we laughed and listened to Aretha Franklin sing “A Change is Gonna Come.” He said that was his favorite song of all time. It was priceless.

I dropped him off at the Fillmore, right in the heart, and he ordered me to get out and meet his loved ones. They were having a barbeque on the streets and playing games, all the children, and they saw him pull up in our red Monte Carlo, La Pura Neta, and they loved it. I met them all, we embraced, and laughed and got to know each other, and then I took off, cruising to oldies and singing, happy to be in the middle of this vida loca 🙂

“The Writing on the Wall”

Writing is
All of the
Past
Present
Future

In the past
The writer learned
To transfer what he
Feels
To what he wants
Others to
Feel
The first few times
He triumphs
It’s by
Chance
Then if he is nice and
Vain
He keeps writing
The past, therefore, was
Chance
Which is the root of
Writing

In the present
He writes and snuggles
Himself
Into the driver’s seat of
His mind
Blasting off
Sometimes to
The sublime
Where he is
Lost and found and
Awestruck
All at the same time
In the same time
The exact moment
That is when writing is
Now

In the future
His writing is
Abandoned
By the corpse
Only
Spider symbols
These fleas jumping on the
Page
Sing the dead man’s song
To a future
The writer
Could never fathom

Chance is the root
The sublime is the present
Fleas are the future