Bernal Litterati [sic]

San Francisco authors read from their work. That means you, too.
San Francisco located stories given preference.
Mic-less open-mic.

Loose-leaf authors
scat
ter
words in
the wind sha
dow
of a library


I've got an electric bi-i-eek
I've got an electric bi-eek
Sometimes I don't switch it on
It's still easy to ride;
I listen closely to the talk I cruise by
Most everyone has something
Somewhere they're going
Then I pass by Driscoll's mortuary;
The nomads in tents face the statutory
Propane camp tanks feeding Fentanyl to the masses
Russian oil splattered roadkill debris;
I hit every red light when I ride this street
But still only hear half the stories
I'm still too fast for the others;
Listen now, sisters and brothers
I ride an electric bi-i-eek
I ride an electric bi-eek


AND HERE'S ANOTHER

There are murals around town painted by XXXXX YYYY,
The faces of public places,
Such as, for instance, the Bernal Branch library's eastern wall.

It strikes me, though, that in Women's History Month
Women muralists ought to get half the space, don't you think?
Every year we ought to put the vertical places up for auction
So that who does the talkin' isn't just who got there first.

Yeah, let the boys pay the girls not to put up stuff if
The boys want to keep that public view shed theirs.
I mean, if the girls like the stuff already there,
Don't bid for the space. Let it ride.

But humdinger, if Benioff wants to shout to the world
With that great big Omphallo thing, but some gal with a brush
And a can of paint has something to say,
I say, make him have to pay her not to splash her story in the air.
It's our sky, isn't it?
Well isn't it?