The Marxist Psychoanalyst

for Mental

Fear Cage

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.

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.

Outsider With Your Orange Liqueur

A device on the cool wet grass under a misty moon
Plays Bob Marley, where I’m not welcome,
Though this was home and I wrote a poem
About the hills of Appalachia and colonialism,
Probably sometime around Chinese National Day though I am in America,
Where they call you exhausting for suggesting
Things like Columbus Day is bullshit.