As always Franklin is hopping With suffering and insanity, A downtown San Franciscan Dirty hippy kind of mundanity. The cross streets scattered With cardboard and bags: Bags of shit Bags that are empty Or those sometime-lucky Bags that have been dropped In the rain but remain intact With white powder or tan, But who would risk it? Someone who is not me Not now my life is not In the bag Under the overpass or Bleeding out in fractions Of light and life and hope. No. I'm dangling by another More fragile rope. A man drags himself along The sidewalk on his backside Pulling his legs along using His hands: he looks broken, Like someone stole his wheelchair, Or perhaps he had been beaten, Or pulled along by the hair. He is in trouble of various Exotic and mundane kinds His pants are shredded Newspapers on his feet I can't bring myself to meet His eyes, I can't offer any help, And the fact I feel useless Matters not at all at all at all Not when he is on the floor And my back is against the wall. What matters is that life is Getting lived down, not up; And the parties that everyone Thinks are happening, are not. And the fun that everyone believes To be occurring is not So much fun at all. This is the long walk Down the very short haul. Not tomorrows nor today's Parties or expectations, It is not hedonism: It is existentialism. It it the logical conclusion To conservatism That some have everything And some have nothing That some get the cream And others the greasy slop; That some get the boost While others the chop. Franklin is always hopping With insanity and suffering And if you look closely You'll see a woman with tears In her eyes and a Velvet Underground teeshirt who Is wearing an average disguise.