They say that suicides from the Golden Gate
Bridge are always done facing the ocean
as if jumpers somehow fear the city
will rise up in angry revolt, silver
and terrible, asking, "Do you believe
that San Francisco was built by angels?".

And the lovely rent boys, soiled angels,
eye passersby. "Through me, the unlocked gate
to paradise," they whisper, "Come. Believe."
But lust's unholy now. And the night ocean
does not preside over rites dressed silver
by the moon. No temples in this city.

Worship now in service of the city
Love and Lust dismissed for other Angels
who make less noise, less mess, collect silver,
fill coffers. There's now a toll on the gate
to paradise. Forbidden, the Ocean
reminds that believers used to believe.

Suicide, then, not a cry of "Believe"
but a lack of faith in this scarred city,
still beautiful despite the night ocean
and its lament of glories past. Angels
alight on streetcorners and in bars, gate-
crashing parties, spreading wings of silver.

But the rent boys collecting their silver
know that few are left who really believe
in the sacred. The johns look on the gate
to paradise unseeing. The City
keeps its secrets and its soiled angels
shut their mouths, spread their legs, dream of ocean.

And I dream of the day when the Ocean
forgives past wrongs, bathed in moonlight's silver,
returns Queen-like with forgotten Angels,
Love and Lust, though banished still do believe
in Hope and this scarred and sacred city.
Metatron trumps Metreon at the Gate.

And we'll believe in ordinary angels.
And we'll rejoice in the Silver City.
And we'll reclaim the Gate and the Ocean.

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