Just Out Walking in San Francisco

I'm just sort of going along with something, not sure what it is.

It's probably not much different from the way an animal goes along, or the purple leaves on the bougainvillea go along with whatever the main vine says. 

I'm finally just myself, after years of trying, and what a relief it is to me.

Yes, I can't!

All along Union Street, people sit in cafes' in the late afternoon with glasses of red wine, practicing their al fresco moves in faux cafe society style, and I'm able to look at them without thinking that they're empty.

The poems of Ryokan replace the poems of Wallace Stevens, who's replaced the poems of William Carlos Williams, and every poem that comes to my mind is overseen by my buddy, Professor Bill Mohr, who said to me of San Francisco when I first moved here, "everyone's a poet in San Francisco."

I walk along, neither in a experimental phase or in the mainstream.

My sexual orientation is the least of my concerns.

Just before I arrive at my therapist's office, I wonder what I'll have to say to her today, a day when I feel like just going along with everything is the way I was meant to live, and that there's nothing wrong with it.

I like my therapist very much. She's a really great woman. She describes therapy as "two people talking."