Brok_n w_rds, brok_n sente_ces, brok_n thoughts, brok_n peop_e.
Men and women wh_ wis_ to skim through lif_;
wh_ want to show ever_ thing to ever_ one;
wh_ need fast_r devic_s so th_t th_y may fill
in their blan_ spac_s wit_ status upd_tes.
A land of people wh_ hav_ forgotten th_t lif_ is short and
not mea_t to be skim_ed ; th_t lif_ is not about h_w man_
sentenc_s y_u read or things th_t y_u post.
Life is about how many times you slow down,
how many breaths you feel, how many
words you not only read, but taste.
Living In a Tent In San Francisco
So tired. Breathe. There we go. Look outside. People walking. Try to stand. Can’t stand. Ceiling too short. Go outside? Can’t go outside. No where to go outside. Sit back. Try to think. Can’t think. Too tired. Drink. Can’t drink. No drink. Too tired. Close eyes. Try to dream. Can’t dream. Too tired. So sad. People walking. Try to sleep. Can’t sleep. Too loud. Walls thin. Sit up. Use bathroom. Can’t use bathroom. No bathroom. Look outside. Blues walking. Moving time. Same time. Try to stand. Can’t stand. Still tired. So tired. Breathe. There we go. Look outside. No one outside. Try to smile. Can’t smile. Try to stand. Can’t stand. Lie back. Breathe. Can’t breathe. Wait for help. No help. Try to remember. Can’t remember. Smile. Can’t smile.
Two metallic quarters absorb the sunlight
refracting through a thin store window
on Solano Avenue where the Ohlone’s
used to live. In the quarter’s center their
electrons heat up, excited by the window’s
open curtain and the noisy vibrations
waving in from the outside.
Cardboard slots on a poster that
says, ‘Your Support Saves Lives,’
hold the quarters in the air, just
below other lines that say,
‘Fighting blood cancers,’ and
‘Joshua: Leukemia survivor,’ and
‘Someday is today.’
His picture is like my picture, like
your picture, like the other pictures
of a human before they grow
old. But he is fading now, the poster
has been in the sun too long, and he
was born fifteen years ago, fifteen
years of war, one trillion dollars
on war, four trillion quarters on
war, fifteen years of war and some
more war and some more war, too.
Two quarters heating up, stuck, sticking
to that plastic poster with two quarters
that I take, put them in my pocket,
Joshua, I am sorry, two quarters aren’t enough
even a dollar won’t do
So I throw them in the City’s trash,
watch them sit on top of a pile
of coffee cups and compostable dog poop bags.
And walk away.