On Valencia Street I met a man Whose hair announced the age; an age Of wheelchair bums and whitey dreads, Winy espressos and knobbed dildoes, Watched over by caring helicopters; Ecco San Francisco, this first Decade of a crackborn millennium; To any head that’s screwed on tight, Normal; to a loose-necked remnant Ill-fastened to the present, an Amazing sight—but when so epic As this dude’s head? Brown humongous Broccoli dreads with daikon dreams, Surely shoulder-length or more, yet Pinned forward over—a baseball cap— Picture it, dear reader, as you dare; Observe that to the careless observer This sprout, this growth much-loved And deeply foul, has clearly thrust Its way, a daisy through concrete, through The crown of the equally foul cap… at This moment the fart of a big truck Rang in my mindless ear, and I recalled The words of Mrs. Kate Crane Gartz— Yes, of the famous plumbing Cranes— In a letter to the Los Angeles Record In 1923; “California,” she wrote, “Is called the Prussia of America, The most reactionary of the states; I would change that reputation To the MOST PROGRESSIVE, in fact The leader; to show the world we Have something besides our scenery, That we have a heart and soul.” Oh! Mrs. Gartz! I have a California, Heart and soul both slightly used, For you; yours I’ll take in trade. Does scenery mean too much to me?