General’s Motor: A poem about General Motors Company – i.e., the car producer that killed over one hundred innocent people by installing bad ignition switches that it knew about beforehand. GM seems to be untouchable to those above, but I hope this poem finds a way to touch them all and to do so firmly.Screenshot 2019-05-11 at 9.09.58 AM……………..

Taste: An enigma poem about Facebook and hell.



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 Quarters

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.


atlas coffee

no one speaks english
thank the gods

spanish, mostly

a homeless man, head down
did not buy a drink
or a bagel
he sits in the sun at a table
they don’t kick him out

still more languages come

a guitar is playing
a man is playing the guitar

he is in the other corner
no sunlight, only music
he is about sixty-five
close to my dad’s age


the homeless man wears Nike shoes
they are tied
he is talking now
God is a shout in the street
wrote Joyce

the homeless man is talking to himself,
to the window too.
it’s his reflection
it is more than his reflection
it is our reflection

I think I love San Francisco again
gentried but not ossified
the best and the worst

Atlas Coffee, Mission District, San Francisco, August 4th, 2018


‘General’s Motor’_ Final Project

taste photo