Tag Archives: Inner Richmond

going downtown

an enormous cloud hangs over the city
as i walk up 2nd Ave smoking
the remnant of a good night, breathing
the rain-washed air of a good day.

i snap a picture of the cloud
with my phone, with my phone
pay the bus fare, sit in the last
square of four seats occupied by three
silent, independent women, each wearing
a distinct set of dark shades. mine barely
cover my eyes as i look south to see
the cloud retreating and the bright sun
emerging, blanketing everything.

suddenly, the three stages of consciousness
blind me:

first, squinting, measuring the luminosity,
cursing myself for forgetting a hat,
wondering about skin cancer, meditating on the family.
second, reasoning, realizing that by
slightly lifting my limb i can slow the effect
of aging. finally, believing,
breathing in, being,
eyelids down aware that death is
and will always be, so may as well
repose on the sunny side. Continue reading

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SAS 10

the sun awoke
slowly—bony and burdened
on the floor of the horizon—
beamed brilliantly with life
even at that great distance—
crimson—breathed
our Beast away
and begun a new morning.

in His wake—
peace—
drooling love. Continue reading

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SAS 9

IMG_7531 Continue reading

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Lemon and Friends

i had an Alexander Hamilton, but you need three Washingtons (two bills, one coin) to ride the bus.

a sensible person on a time crunch would’ve just saved the energy by hailing a techno-ride, but i much preferred to pay (read: vote) for public infrastructure and transport, not a greed-backed private corporation. so, after calculating time to walk to the next bus, i determined to stop by a local mom-and-pop, purchase something around $2.50, and walk away with a Lincoln plus appropriate bus fare.

the place where i stopped was a bakery on Clement and Arguello, teeny tiny with a wide selection of delicious treats. “Pura Vida,” said the guy behind the register, brown and warm face, dark and curly-haired, referring to my faded tourist shirt from Costa Rica.

“yup,” i said, “it’s an old shirt. you from there?”

“actually, no,” he said, “Nicaragua.”

“whoa, that’s where my mom’s from.”

“what part?”

“Chontales,” i answered, anxiously poring over the pastry prices—$3.50 for lemon cake, $4 for croissants, $5 for cream puffs crafted for the one percent—none of which would leave me appropriate change for the bus. oh well, i thought, i’ll just ask him to break the five.

“can i get the ‘lemon and friends’?”

at this point i noticed a couple—man and woman—sitting halfway up a flight of stairs scrutinizing the scene in which i played a lead role. as our eyes locked the man began reading his lines:

“not just lemon, but honey, molasses, the water of life, organic xantham gum, pixie dust, and Prince’s ashes make up this specific item. hence the title, ‘Lemon and Friends.'”

i glanced at my Nicoya cousin, partly confused why this man was explaining the nuance of my order to me but mostly just ready to go catch my fucking bus and not have a leisurely conversation.

“he’s the baker,” he explained. “want a drink to go with that?”

when i declined, his eyes darted to my cake, and i could almost sense his throat drily gulping in parched despair.

i handed him my ten, only to discover the register completely lacking in ones whatsoever. unfazed, the Nicoya reached into the tip jar to give me my perfect change, smiling. so i couldn’t even ask to break the five.

quickly, likely not courteously, i bid farewell to my comrades and found myself back on the street laughing at the absurdity of it all. Continue reading

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SAS 8

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one day in a blustery, sunny daze on the side of the hill,
the next, wolfing down tequila and orange juice
in little triple-cubed glassware,

sitting around the table like three California quail
and some other beautiful bird from across the country,
all contented as can be,

bleating about the unmistakable mysteries of charcoal paper,
pastel paper, notebook paper, the electromagnetic spectrum,
and imaginary trees.

in between the green, green leaves,
past the gradient of brown bark,
far, far behind the white noise specks of space,
lies something. Continue reading

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1137

The duties of the Sea are few—
To boil and to freeze—
To inhale all the Earth provides—
Exhale life on the breeze.

The pleasures of the Sea are broad
To wash and splash about—
A Waltz that pushes and attracts
The waxing, waning Moon.

The kinsmen of the Sea are Keys—
Harmonious—Rhythmic—
Dissonant—Endless—
Sung simply through the Epochs.

The limitations of the Sea—
If you ask the nearest crone—
Or professor—or pelican—
Will forever be Unknown. Continue reading

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SAS 6

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i have a rain stick in my bathroom that makes the sound of my other half, tumbling pebbles. my mother brought it from New Mexico, a place i’ve been directly west, north, and east of. the stick makes the sound of pebbles thrown around the globe, skipping across flowers, people, pools of sugary rum blood, sinking into multiple dimensions of angiosperm flesh. Continue reading

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let the words flow like fog

let the words flow like fog
from the abyss, instilled with meaning
only after traversing a million miles
across the mind, dizzy
with dreams.

let them hang low,
mingling among the trees,
buildings, people, fiends,
dampening and dimming
natural aversions.

let them grow long in lines
from sunrise to sunset to sunrise
hinting at stupor
through deserts of verdure
fueled by our favorite toxins.

dissipate — let them
when they will —
diadem of universal wisdom
pour forth like fate
from thy dripping, inky quill. Continue reading

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SAS 5

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sitting in the silence
of my cold and humid home—
i sense a growing guidance,
as Taja gnaws her bone:
i cannot make the world a beauteous place alone.

the truth’s we need each other
to fight the rising tyrants—
a sister and a brother
against an aimless violence—
time after time we’ll link our arms to new horizons. Continue reading

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SAS 4

Stranger seem they who stomach the return when once intimate with their zenith of pleasure they had jettisoned away. Strangers to this strangeness seem stranger still, for they have yet to cast off.

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the spider on the sill—
a-swinging on her wheel—
a weave among the rain—attempting to be still.

the black, obedient dog—
our souls in analog—
a sniffing, listening creature wandering through the fog.

the fruit upon the table—
glowing brightly—nothing sable—
all yellow, orange, red—bleeding citrus staples.

the books with humble words—
in inky flocks like birds—
unfurling wise old wings that rhyme in lines of thirds.

the icy drinks in glass—
just buoyant bubbles, grass—
dissolving artsy minds in poetry with mass.

apes lounging in the kitchen—
some buying—selling—visions—
across the marketplace of psycho-stellar fission.

why not end it now—i say—fuck it—
let’s leave the seventh stranded in a lonely couplet! Continue reading

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