A TACO SHOP CANTO FOR WAR-TOWN SAN DIEGO Land grants no more Boom town no more. The war is no more War is no more. San Diego, war city no more. No need for the great wall of factories from Pacific Highway to Kearny Mesa. General Dynamics, Solar Turbines, jet hangars Recruitment depots Will all become artists lofts Will all become free clinics Or maquiladoras. Remember the stickfloor nudie bars on Broadway With their eighteen year old strippers Maskerading as world wise has been hookers. They no longer entertain world wise shyphilis swabbies Masquerading as eighteen year-old sharks. Ready to bite, With their babyteeth. Now Emerald Shapery Oz-like beacon For new industry Has godzilla stomped The strip bars into the underground. Now navy-town grunge Oozes from sidewalk cracks Onto marble floored lobbies Grabbing tourists by their ankles And dragging them into the underground. Into the ground waters of free speech And woobly water cannon tolerance. The grunge Sticks to the sole of the corporate types And stains their stainmaster bloody. Up the street At Southwest Euro cafes In Gaslamp former peep show parlors Socal grungified teens and twenties Sip bites of liquified java. Posing as sidewalk billboards. With an air of falsified urbanity And a faded touch of culpability. Fifth and Broadway Grand Central station for soultagged teens Those who left their mark On the shelled out Walker Scott Glass screen To my first fantasies of Christmas consumerism. A world size window now empty. The ghost of stockmarket Icarus Falls from First National Trust At exactly nine a.m. Falling on the Tijuana maid Bound for La Jolla rows of mansion street Two blocks off the route 30. Stockmarket Icarus Wipes the speculation from his wings Begs pardon from la seora And looks progress in the face. 99 cent stores Sueo Sek Tmk And other price tags. And I, so-called heir apparent to the great Acosta See all Be all Furiously type away Type away the fears of my mortality Type away the application to the pages of haistory, A paragraph slopped on my headstone In some internet-sold encyclopaedia delivered on CD-ROM. Call me the not so brown buffalo The thirteenth generation lost leader Call me Chintolas Jones, nomad of Aztlan No man No mad Aztlan. Empty lots Full of no cars Where local grunge rockers Perform their private little bum-aid To soup line empresarios gone bad Are the new meeting places for push cart culture. War-town San Diego Now Cultural Mecca in Aztlan Has become crossroads for taco shop culture Has become crossroads for mestizo tonguefire Has become crossroads for chorizo tonguefire.