Could Use A Fan
Fame is the uneven spread of love
In a world plagued both with starvation and obesity.
California is like its gold pan.
Shiny monads of affluence throng in the circuitry of roads,
where nowhere leads to the compassion of our basic needs
And everywhere leads to capitalism.
The one hand controlled by an insatiable desire,
the other it’s the conquest of its safety.
While some fight to see their name in lights, for others
it’s to be seen as a person at all.
have you ever seen such handsome homeless men?
Feeling the burn on your skin increase
Like the frequency of wildfires.
Scorching our vain neglect of a future that is certain
to view us most infamously,
who stuck their white necks in the ground.
A majestic Tuscan villa
the classiness of which is in its unoccupied space,
Reminds me of those quaint little towns in Burma.
The elegant and orderly palms stand like pillars
As if lines of famous literature
Or a heartfelt speech that makes for the activist a career.
But there’s no more of it to go around.
We hiked under the bridge.
When bikers rode across it, the sound was like thunder.
I took a piss in nature not far from Folsom prison.
Off the bike trail, there was a homeless camp.
Cans of duster lay on the ground, I heard the sounds
of madman chatter,
And soon the Easter bunny will come.
When the community seems to look on
One like a prison guard to an inmate,
Your old bed feels like a hotel
And you know you’re on sacrificial land;
That is sterile with money and judgment.
When you left your bags packed for three years
And the amount you’ve changed is staggering
to the degree that no one thinks you do anything.
When the world has always been this insane
but it’s you who’re scorned for life-long
Defiance, the cold land gives you
Only disdain like a father.
The one who somehow started it
And yet couldn’t even tie his shoes
When fear was born
The Album From One Decade Ago
I simply went out
on the balcony.
I simply went out
for the first time
in some time,
probably not since
bringing in the garbage cans on Thursday.
The garden was desolate.
The garden that never
amounted to anything.
I looked over the railing,
I wrote a poem once
in a hotel room in Mandalay.
I was in Wushan
when you died,
or when I heard the news.
I hold his yin-yang pendant to this day.
A very barren winter day
Outside, I feel like that
In my room.
When the snow no longer spreads out
Leisurely, like it belonged there.
My mind cycles in broad sweeps.
It seems we are rodents on treadmills
when stuck in an environment of patriarchy.
I will meet a girl on something of a date,
who is separating from her wife;
Where will we go, and is it unmanly
If I’m nervous?
Private Thoughts on Property
When what you have to look forward to
There’s a painting on the wall;
its shades of green are similar to
Those on the Mayflower moving vessel
And the crates of pages on pages of
Printed out material is always collecting dust.
Overcast glare on a taupe branch curving up,
A dog barks
Haven’t seen the stray cat in months,
A neighborhood of individuals who basically know I exist
But in principle I don’t.
One branch wavers heavily in the wind,
Thick dry chestnut leaves bog it down.
How can change frighten the prisoner,
who is free so misery is of our own device?
Inessentiality of Names
An environment which denies me my change,
Like the indifferent passings-by of violent masses,
Society in the grip of self-delusion
And stationary raindrops cling
Outside the pane;
A slick black pavement shades to gray
And white, dotted with autumn leaves
In the last warmth, the
Middle of December.