Sunday, February 27, 2011


Yahweh, Tathagata, Krishna,

I prayed to you...

...for a run-on sentence that might hold an explanation for the existence of me because it's always about me and I want to know truthfully, in your own words but please keep it somewhat concise though as I need to tweet, and I'm almost out of Starbucks and if I don't have any more Starbucks, well, you are God, you know what will happen. I want to know why I am here, I want to know what my purpose is, I want to know where I am going when I die, I want to know what will happen if I don't file my taxes this year, I want to know if there is a sale going to be happening anytime soon at Macy's because you God, know that I could use the savings and my pants aren't quite fitting me the same as they used to. Hang on, I'm getting another call coming through here...

For One Shot Wednesdays at

Slow Suicide

She has succumbed to slow suicide
And while it's conscious and contentious
The irony is that darkness is sustainable
Despite extraneous indications otherwise.

Her hair cut short with missing patches
Is only mere, visible confirmation
That without much noticeable gray matter left
She knows what she is doing.

Yelling at invisible nothings in the street,
Swearing under her breath to whom I fear is me
For not being willing to share something
That I do not possess.

I can't hate her because I am her and
We are one, we all are.
Medicated by media, by desire
By choices made to feel nonexistence.


Desperation and attack are sojourn
But worry that for others, it's simply too late.
A chronic itch in the eyes of the supervisors
Who only notice when the heater has stopped working.

Street sheets and shelters under sheet metal
Swept under the door, health care budget cuts
And another war, it's easy to forget, hell,
I forgot until it happened to


Tuesday, February 22, 2011


I want to be a grip-man
Charged with navigating the cable cars
I'll run the Powell and Market line
I could be proud of that,
It's respectable, responsible and reasonable.
Or make coffee, I could make coffee...
I just don't want to lift things, heavy things

A degree in intercultural communication
From a prestigious university
Should be pedigree could hope.
He's under-qualified, too qualified she said,
We'll give you a call, and thank you for your time
Consistent rejection felt stirringly comfortable
It smelled like future.

I want to be an artist
Charged with creating beauty and evoking emotion
I'll create murals and paint them all over the City
I could be proud of that,
It's inspiring, influential and indestructible
Or I could sell clothes, I could work in retail
I just don't want to work on commission, nothing too uncertain

He's under-qualified, too qualified she said,
We'll give you a call, and thank you for your time
It smelled like future

I want to be a writer
Charged with telling the stories that have yet to be told
I'll write books, novels and poetry and sell them all over the world
I could be proud of that,
It's like breathing, heart beating and beautiful
Or I could pack up recycled moving blankets and move on
I just don't want to sleep outside any longer

It's December-cold, my feet hurt from walking, and I stink
But to me it smells like hope.

Sunday, February 20, 2011


I love the streets,
Damp, wet, full of red paper
Vacant store fronts resembling my
Life and unsuspecting apartments above

With families.

You smoke weed?
You gotta an extra needle?
You have 23 cents?
I'm hungry
I need a drink to stop shaking
Can I have your short?
You gotta?
You gotta?
Come on man...

Not with gas prices like this and have
You heard about the price of kumquats these days?
I read that congress said something about something
But we'll all just have to wait.

I used to believe that they were looking out for me
That's what I voted for
But I'm stuck as a 99'er and I'm scared
Of the color red

Chairman Mao would've been proud he said
It's spinning and spiraling and I can't afford to go
To General even though I want to, no need to
But I still love the streets

Think global
Think local
Think passion
Think no fear
Think peace
Think prosperity
Think justice
Think, just think

But I still love the streets

It's the only place where you can see
Reality and not the reality of CSPAN
Congressional hearings, which are supposed
To make me feel cared and protected for

You filibuster fucks

Where were you when she lost her job?
When she had to feed her kids,
When she transitioned from General Assistance
To prison and prostitution?

Is your budget balanced now?
Say War
Say Drug War,
Say Blackwater
Try to locate all of our current wars on a map

Did you forget the streets?
Right here...
At home, in your neighborhood
Or has supply and demand economics
Trumped your compassion for humanity?

Don't worry, I still love the streets

But I'm more cautious now
More complacent now
Feel more alone now

For One Shot Wednesday

Monday, February 14, 2011


I was submitting this for one stop poetry based on a prompt by this amazing photo from Sean McCormick but unfortunately missed the deadline by a few minutes. Either way, thought that I would post it and his photograph as well.


I've seen you before
Looking through what was once
Glass, now dismantled
And I'm all naked

I hate that you can see me,
My American homestead
My American dream,
It smells like failed tax relief

It smells like broken promises
It smells like drinks all around
At the bar
It smells like it's all stagnant here

I can still see you, through the window
'Neath the horizon,
Scarred from personal battle
One that I may have caused

There is safety here in this facade
So I can watch you walk away
From the rotting wooden enclosure
That makes me feel protected

And get a glimpse of what it would
Be like to have nothing, which I have
For this, I am happy as this road,
Only I alone can lead.

For One Shoot Sunday

My Ghost Town

The town that I created all on my own
From the South Side of Stockon,
Near the laborers and Caterpillars and
Punjabi man who always had a smile,

It began there, Underneath the
Rice-burnt summer skies
And an endless horizon of nothingness
And potential promises.

Continuing down the interstate
In the vastness of it all, and in a rented truck
With a cat sitting on my lap
The inevitability of the future was fuel

Consistent sun, celebrity connections,
Something about the tinsel and that white
Sign made me me understand camaraderie
And the stories that my mother used to tell about transvestites.

But ocean life was short-lived and Redondo was no more
Dank, stag-like, hamburger helper residence near LAX
Resemblance of hope dissipated like loneliness
I had come to terms with my existence.

Hurried escape from the smog to the fog,
I didn't know why I was running all of the time
Or from what other than from myself
Until I had a glimpse of the Bay and knew that I would die there.

Donning a shirt and tie I tried to fit in
To society, to live the American Dream, whatever that was,
I used wikipedia to help me understand but only
Learned about manifest destiny and 2.5 children and a dog.

I asked my boss if I could dye my hair blue and when she said
No, I asked about the color purple but to no avail.
Economy was driven by capital and I found out that we had none,
I wore jeans and a T-shirt on my last day when I collected my things.

Richard called me incessantly on my phone,
Doing his job as compassionately as he could given his circumstances
And wondering when the rent would be paid,
But I had nothing, no answer for him other than lies.

Creeping in the middle of the night, staring out at the full moon down
Geary Street, I left the American dream and wondered
What the politicos were up to at this hour, but reckoned,
That I created this ghost town myself and instead found rest on the streets.

For One Shot Wednesday