California Dreaming – Spaniards with sand between their toes and a nomenclature project in mind ..

Spaniards with sand between their toes and a nomenclature project in mind, so to the San’s of that Time, to the Missions from their big Mission, from Diego South to Francisco North, and the Angels grew bigger when the Saints came marching in.
I went there too, knew I could rub the fallout from Bethel, take that ‘Woodstock’-mix up to my eyes, into my nose, rest it in my lungs and send it into my mind, see the Manson lamps burn, but looking for a hideout then, needed a stop then, stop from wandering hard and away from an army of Draft G-Men.
In a room of my own, and a TV on, Saigon falling from our favour, looks like we don’t like the view from the top of our designer hotel anymore, so in rotation, looks like we’re leaving.
Later, raised my head and stubbed out the roller, cut my long hair and wandered into ‘Frisco’.
Wanted to paint the Golden Gate yellow, but couldn’t find a paint shop at two in the morning, discontent was tasted then, and my hiding and smoking in hot airless places was wiped-out on that ‘today’.
Less rain south, dry in my rooms rented, and in my beds, wet from sun-pulled sweat, and the long days never left, so not long to think like a fool, maybe act the fool, the Leading Man on Shakespeare’s say so, then buy a bigger slice of the Angels wings.
Driving cabs for nickels and dimes, eating most of that, embedding mattresses across town with the leftovers, and my telephone was cold from an agent’s hate.
Bought a gun and pointed it at my head, then put it in my mouth, then that heavy metal machine fell from my hand, six bullets still sleeping.
Still alive and in a loser’s bed, survivor’s cabs are hailed twenty-four seven, back seats taken over by ‘on the moves’ and movie-makers, and I’ll drive those sunny Californians into happy endings if it’s the last thing I do.

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