That's him. He likes to blow his smoke in the countless eyes of polluted pink sunsets, and clouds. And stomp on the leaves of the Fall that won't seem to come but might come too soon. He's all embarcaderos and rodeos in the city of cities where leaving is a way of living. Or maybe vice versa. His guitar is unplugged and his drying pen is maybe not so dry. No matter what, the collar's up, and he's still howling into the wind.
Even silently.
Especially, in fact.

Cheap Chinese in North Beach

Steaming roll of San Francisco soul
Cheap and common, easy breezy, it's
Becoming
Lazy in my fattishness, complacent
In my ease
It's time to return to the places
I've never been
The plastic rose in the long lapel of
The road smells sweetly of limousines
Not driving by, and my not flying
From one flat to the next at the
Behest of national media coverage
And intrinsic moral debt

It's a Chinese buffet in Texas, this
Modern country of mine, and
I'm letting my meat settle before I
Attack it again