Poem Four, you moron.

Alley of Sickening Riches

Ten twenty-one.
The sewage runs down
Nob Hill.
The Bentleys and Bugatti run down
Nob Hill.
They take the shortest route
to the freeway.
The diners, doors locked,
look straight ahead.
The Tenderloin.
The worst of this city.
Hidden in an alley
off Larkin and Ellis
Black tar mother
Her legs, her arms,
hanging, curdled flesh
Her two dead children
Sleeping bag mummies
in her stolen Safeway cart.
The Tenderloin.
It's below Nob Hill.
Come say hi.

- - -

See you in your nightmares, Onstad. I wrote this one from LIFE. Took the train up to the city a couple weeks ago, opened my notebook and WIPED it across the blighted Tenderloin like the toilet paper that I know you are.

More soon; did you really think I'd give up?

— Pat.