These                                                                       (this) are

                                              (is)

(:a poem;
                                    For yOu.)

                                                                                      (Whom i hAvE)

                                 (been nursing)
                                          
                        ( B             h                  e
                              u          c            r
in                                     a     T                                            My
                                  T    m
                             f        o          l
                       i               t                e
                                         s)


butterflies—they glow
              For you,                                     {they've spared me some cold,

chilly

nights}

              <goodby>                they're yours now.

                                                                                                              
                                                                                                            <goodby>

Still,
I rise.

By the power of God,
I sheath
The knife
That was once pressed
To my neck.

That falls to the floor
With a resounding
click.

Rusting. Tetanus shots. God.

Somehow I saw
Jesus' face in the blade's
Own,
Ruddy red hair and
Scraggly beard.

And.

Voice cleaving through
The darkness—
a whisper.

For the first time in
A while,

He spoke to me.
Still,

I rise.

Porous asphalt,
And bandaged, quilt
Homes puncture the
Neighborhood,
Which reads like a tattered
American flag; all
Coke Ads and weight loss
Billboards,

Half-burnt houses slant,
Like the hills of San Francisco—
Our own makeshift cable
Carts, limping up
And down the inclines.

We are slowly being burned
By our once golden sun—
Having been taught to
Bleach ourselves
Pale, tucked shamefully
In the shade.

Makeshift shanty towns
Which smell of mildew
And processed laundry soap,
Flimsy tin roofs
Tied with Kleenex and
Pizza Hut tarpaulins.

The fact that this neighborhood
Was christened "Freedom"
Strikes an empty pang.

I.
Rivulets of rainwater dance
                                          On edge,
Cracked road painted with
Burnt rubber and chipped yellow lines,
Bits of metal bar and
Burning wood
                     -skidding-
Off
       the road

II.
It's 6:00 pm here beneath
The Jones Bridge;

The smell of oil and
Murky sewage water laps at
         My ankles as
My toes meet
               Yours:

Burnt matches stewing
In the palm of your hand, damp
Brown eyes

          —gawking—

At my patsy appearance.

III.
Floating
                    the surface
            on                            
                                          of
Our shallow river is                     A yellowing letter.

We, undaunted,
Swiftly grab at it with our slim
Fingers. For a moment,

We recognize each other.

I dream of golden nooses
And oak, glided chairs,
And a sick man shriveled up and
Wasted away shivering on top
Of a rain-soaked rooftop
With rosary in his hands
Squeezing one last prayer out
Of his blueish lips
Before heading back down
Into his bedroom.

Chinese characters tattooed
Sloppily on the
Stark white cement walls,
Words for death and dying men,
And mercy and God,
Paintbrush dipped in bright red—
Red is the Chinese color of prosperity.
Gilded gold and cedar the American one.

In frustration at the hollowness
Of his Midas touch,
At the way his hands grasp the
Cross of Jesus only for it
To turn gold in scorn,
He screams.

In anger seizes the
Rosary around his wrists
And snaps it on

His neck.