all the ways

from a sunny balcony with a picturesque panoramic view in Russian Hill

from a staple stoop where birds sing their hearts out all day long in Alamo Square

from a fire escape where NYC eludes to be just blocks away in Lower Pac Heights

from the back alley entrance way perfumed with sweet olfactory essences in Lower Haight

from a comfortable greasy spoon cafe that caters to all senses, destroying hangovers, and feeding the soul for under 10 dollars on Divisidaro

from the 12 galaxies of a dark windowless bar that hosts local bands where on any given night you can find a friend and the drinks are always stiff in the Mission

from an occasionally shady bus stop in the jazz district where the trees that line the street are lit up perpetually on holiday, where footsteps sound like saxophones and the history is as thick as the locals are black on Fillmore

from the window across from an ethnic mural on a secret street cornered by the Beat Museum and the first strip club in the area to go topless so many years past, where the ghosts of Kerouac and Cassidy laugh in the seediness of night over slices of pizza in North Beach

from the front room with double doors and lavender bedding in a house, on the outside, identical to every other one on the block, where the fog lingers longer and the breeze is salty in the Richmond

from my seat on the grass behind me a DJ plays while an eclectic group of beings flared out drunk and smiling playing slosh ball (kickball+beer) watching the frothy spray shine in the sunlight as they slip and slide from base to base in Golden Gate Park

from the entrance of the BART amongst the hustle and bustle, towering buildings, abundant beggars, street vendors, mass transit, business suits, and brand name outlets of Downtown

I love this city