in short reverberant bursts
down Clarion Alley,
gentle beating of cathedral air
with holy wings
not doves
or gargoyles
but Mission pigeons
dirty and weathered
cooing softly,
while murals ooze
from the walls
drawn out by
misty coastal rain
or rainy coastal mist
that inflames colors
tattooed into brick
and wood
and concrete
by eager hands
grasping for ugly truths
hidden in plain sight
and uncovering them
stroke by stroke by solemn stroke.

Strange sleepy silence
cloaks the alley
muffling the
Mission and Valencia street din
allowing softer subtler voices
to crawl out
from the cracks
swell into
ubiquitous obvious undismissable
staring you in the face
like redrum in the mirror.

My hands are red
but I don't know how I got here
I don't know how I got here
I don't know what to do
Tell me what to do
I see you, now,
I feel you
but I feel helpless
in the face of this great monster,
Moloch, old monster of our forebeards

Who cannot be killed by conventional weaponry,

Who cannot be defeated by one man or two
    women or three gays or four Arabs or five bums
    or six artists or seven techies or eight
    nine-headed tender hearts,

Who can only be toppled by a million small cuts,
    patient persistent leavening of complacent
    populace to ferment discontent and twelve
    Moloch's unlucky thirteen:

stagnant heteronormative sexist xenophobic
    racist classist reductionist superstitious
    dismissive closed cold composed unlucky.

Only one way:
                         keep     fucking     cutting