On a Berkeley corner by Adam's old house,
a tagger names Sigh knows what it's all about.
An old blind beggar with a handwritten sign
sitting Indian-style, further bending his spine.
On my way to write, I"d wonder all the time:
Are we not a species of one-of-a-kinds?
These are the moments, frozen in amber,
written at random and signed by brandon.
Like falling in love in a locked cancer ward:
loosely committed yet routinely widowed,
and wear my wounds like a western wall
wears broken blinds over an open window.
1.
It's always life or death on a blind date.
all we can do: wear our lucky shirts.
I've seen corporate men sleeping on the train;
nervous in elevators, people are the same.
A book of baby names is put back on the rack:
there's nothin' but regret in checkout aisle number 2.
Regrets are like strangers until they hit on you;
cobwebs collect the dust and then they stick to you.
Stiff in a bucket are the dime store robots,
like dead goldfish, floating at the top.
A grandfather's trailer in the reat gray open
pauses outside of a secondhand shop.
It's divine amnesia and the time-lapse friends,
leaving yet again, the very living end.
And Oakland freight whistles about one A.M.,
when and where a new scythe meets and old stem.
Holes in the skyline the black coal will burn
'cause all the train songs are only four bars return.
And like a missing nine on a neon price,
"I'm watching for the power to run out on the moon.'
Do humans really change, like my mother's maiden name?
A divorce or two... and it's back again.
White kids with tongues like tracing paper,
pairs of baggy pants and brand new walkmen,
are still kids, like we used to be,
and like strained glass, will shine through.
We're not party peaple, we're just animated puppets;
you can even see the strings in our young face crutches.
In effect: the Laney College swap meet, the E.L.F., Corso, etc.