Dock of the Bay

Dock of the Bay

Canyons, no crevices, dig into sand mountains, making
long labia out of the land. Lopsided cactus waves
windblown goodbye, as desert gives way to the old
‘Frisco Bay. Cousins connect, but only by phone,
walking different directions from the Embarcadero.
Presidio golfers roll out of bounds in a city whose
boundaries are poorly defined. Let’s face it, the Sea
Lions at Pier 31 are penned in like zoo animals, thus
helping Fisherman’s Wharf in its final transformation
from working docks to Disneyesque mall. Still, strained
necks, a yard wide yelp a horny call from floating docks
packed tight. Lounging, sunbathing, slick mammals
lead the good life, gulping scraps, swimming cool
water, photographed continuously in the day hours.
They’ve become repressed in recent years, perhaps tired
of having sex in public. The streetcar named “F” jerks
up Market to Castro. More locals ride than tourists in
November, but we caught a warm sunny day full of
carousel rides, Boudin’s sour bread, and a bargain from
a Korean shop owner. Street beggars are more compact
here than in L.A.: also more direct. There’s always a
scam about the environment or abused children down in
L.A., but here his sign reads, “I’ll be honest, I need a beer.”

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2007. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original.


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