Just for Jolly.

Under a cloud, took the long bus from Key West to Miami. Never will return to that hole, again. Frowning aloof faces of lonesome sad people, pass the bogs littered with dead iguanas and diseased armadillos - debarked the Metrorail and checked in the night at my old haunt - the Miami Sun Hotel. Debating my next harebrained scheme I sat sweating from that sticky humidity in the local McDonald’s and as I chewed on them cheesy cheeseburgers I got on my laptop and bought a plane ticket to San Francisco. Why not?
Next morning as the rain pounded, I sat outside the local Starbuck’s sipping hot coffee and nibbling on a blueberry muffin pondering my immediate future. Ha - I have none. What do you do when you have stepped out of the loop and stand there looking in? All those people. All those stressing unimportant problems they have accumulated - I feel nothing for them, I dare say.
I down some Dramamine and an hour or so later jumping through the Kafkan loops of airport security - funny, here I am, this literary tramp always Grayhounding or thumbing a ride and I find myself in this monstrous high tech airport with the international jet set.
It is raining cats and dogs outside the airport, grab my bag and jump on the plane - hurtling through the air at 10,000 feet on a Baron Munchhausen kick headed to The City by the Bay - Fagtown, Jotosburg, Bearvilla, Leatherlandia - Queer Capital of this fair land. Just for jolly, it seems - want to stop in City Lights Books to grab a copy of Kerouac’s Tristessa.
I make a transfer in Charlotte, North Carolina - one mishap, some fat bitch placed an open container of water in the overhead compartment, spilled but made no major problems with my laptop that was up there with it (Expecting smoke and sparks from my old friend). Slingshot through the stratosphere uneventful - The Hulk 2 was the in flight movie and overpriced sandwiches on the menu. I still can’t stomach flying.
Screech to a halt in that megalopolis San Francisco in the chill of dusk - jump the BART and purchased my Greyhound ticket in a cold wind. As any traveler knows, every Greyhound terminal has a kiosk that displays cheap and savory hotels for weary travelers of the road and I acquired a room at the hotel Pontiac off of Mission down skid row - dark street packed with hobos lying in piss and hip blacks on the hustle crack rocks in quivering cold hands - liquor stores and blue red purple neon of porno shops show it all nasty all night. Paid the greasy Hindu flashing gold tooth and he pass me a frayed towel through a grate. Slide up the swaying elevator to my single room with bath down the hall and all kinda sick junkies screaming in the alley.
I hit the cracked pavement and find a bar full of hip kids and fags - sit there savoring my beer when black man rail thin barges in and sizes me up as an easy mark, I reckon.
“Now what you need is a safistamacated woman.” He breathes liquor and halitosis into my face.
I smile and say what.
“A safistamacated woman, boy. One that’ll fuck ya all night.” When he says ‘all’ his yellow eyes roll around his lined scarred head.
I tell ‘em scattah and he stares me down but jets, anyhow - leaving me to my beer. Tired from the trip I return to my room for some early touring of the surroundings locals.

Wake up early and step out of the hotel and over a hundred hobos till I find a Starbuck's - served by twinkling queer teen and he inform me of Folsom St. Fair. Can't do it. I bop around Market watching the clanking trolleys and the bustling people and this city seems so ominous to me - snap some uninnerestin' pics until I hop that Greyhound bus and I head north...