The Golden Gate - I (A Novel In Verse)

1.1. To make a start more swift and weighty, Hail Muse. Dear Reader, once upon A time, say, circa 1980, There lived a man. His name was John. Successful in his field though only Twenty-six, respected, lonely, One evening as he walked across Golden Gate Park, the ill-judged toss Of a red frisbee almost brained him. He thought, "Who'd gloat? Who would be glad? Would anybody? " As it pained him, He turned from this dispiriting theme To ruminations less extreme. 1.2. He tuned his thoughts to electronic Circuitry. This soothed his mind. He left irregular (moronic) Sentimentality behind. He thought of or-gates and of and-gates, Of ROMs, of nor-gates, and of nand-gates, Of nanoseconds, megabytes, And bits and nibbles… but as flights Of silhouetted birds move cawing Across the pine-serrated sky, Dragged from his cove, not knowing why, He feels an urgent riptide drawing Him far out, where, caught in the kelp Of loneliness, he cries for help. 1.3. John's looks are good. His dress is formal. His voice is low. His mind is sound. His appetite for work's abnormal. A plastic name tag hangs around His collar like a votive necklace. Though well-paid, he is far from reckless, Pays his rent promptly, jogs, does not Smoke cigarettes, and rarely pot, Eschews both church and heavy drinking, Enjoys his garden, like to read Eclectically from Mann to Bede. (A surrogate, some say, for thinking.) friends claim he's grown aloof and prim. (His boss, though, is well-pleased with him.) 1.4. Grey-eyed, blond-haired, aristocratic In height, impatience, views, and face, Discriminating though dogmatic, Tender beneath a carapace Of well-groomed tastes and tasteful grooming, John, though his corporate stock is booming, For all his mohair, serge, and tweed, Senses his life has run to seed. A passionate man, with equal parts of Irritability and charm, Without as such intending harm, His flaring temper singed the hearts of Several woman in the days Before his chaste, ambitious phase. 1.5. John notes the late September showers Have tinged the blond hills round the bay With a new green. He notes the flowers In their pre-winter bloom. The way That, when he was a child, the mystery Of San Francisco's restless spark, It strikes him now as, through the park, Wrested from old dunes by the westward Thrust of the greenbelt to the slow Pacific swell, his footsteps go. But it is late. The birds fly nestward Towards the sunset, and the arc Of darkness drifts across the park. 1.6. It's Friday night. The unfettered city Resounds with hedonistic glee. John feels a cold cast of self-pity Envelop him. No family Cushions his solitude, or rather, His mother's dead, his English father, Retired in his native Kent, Rarely responds to letters sent (If rarely) by his transatlantic Offspring. In letters to The Times He rails against the nameless crimes Of the post office. Waxing frantic About delays from coast to coast, He hones his wit and damns the post. 1.7. A linkless node, no spouse or sibling, No children - John wanders alone Into an ice cream parlor. Nibbling The edges of a sugar cone By turns, a pair of high school lovers Stand giggling. John, uncharmed, discovers His favorite flavors, Pumpkin Pie And Bubble Gum, decides to buy A double scoop; sits down; but whether His eyes fall on a knot of three Schoolgirls, a clamorous family, Or, munching cheerfully together, A hippie and a Castro clone, It hurts that only he's alone. 1.8. He goes home, seeking consolation Among old Beatles and Pink Floyd — But "Girl" elicits mere frustration, While "Money" leaves him more annoyed. Alas, he hungers less for money Than for a fleeting Taste of Honey. Murmuring, "Money — it's a gas! … The lunatic is on the grass," He pours himself a beer. Desires And reminiscences intrude Upon his unpropitious mood Until he feels that he requires A one-way Ticket to Ride — and soon — Across the Dark Side of the Moon. 1.9. He thinks back to his day at college, To Phil, to Berkeley friends, to nights When the pursuit of grades and knowledge Foundered in beery jokes and fights. Eheu fugaces… Silicon Valley Lures to ambition's ulcer alley Young graduates with siren screams Of power and wealth beyond their dreams, Ejects the lax, and drives the driven, Burning their candles at both ends. Thus files take precedence over friends, Labor is lauded, leisure riven. John kneels bareheaded and unshod Before the Chip, a jealous God.