Neighbors

The haunts of this complex are vaporous and strange. Shaggy-haired, sad faced young men with Casios behind closed doors, a glance in the doorcrack, tangled wires and a mass of dirty clothes. There are painters of indiscriminate paintings sweeping dusty footsteps from the stairs, saying not a word, whispering secrets to golden furred cats. Eccentrics, hoarders, lunatics (probable), lesbians tattooed and pierced, and others. Live here.

The grey ghost himself, walking the halls at all hours appears. At three o’clock in the morning, I awake to see you out (fearful of the night, when you’re alone in it) we passed him on the stairs, tall, solitary figure dressed in black; gray curls curtaining the grey gaunt face; the cat with golden furs and the saddest eyes silently submits to a twilight scolding. His ex-wife perhaps, a lost love, tragedy clothed in fur and clutched close to the heart; a spell of unspeakable power was cast.

San Francisco, this is your beating heart. These lonesome souls, frozen in midstep, crossing the street. The countdown on the street outside, on 6th street, skid row, the most poignant art ever created by mechanical failure. The crosswalk sign counting down from one to zero, from zero to one, from one to zero. No sign of direction. Does it count up or down?

As I cross the street, passing confused German tourists wary to step out when the light might at any moment change to red, I imagine all these fallen bodies propped in sleeping bags against blackened brick walls, huddled above sewer grates, are crossing the street, and time freezes before they get across. I imagine they are stuck like figures in a broken tape flickering on a TV screen that no one will turn off. 1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-