In San Francisco
I had a dream
that no one noticed
when the trolleys
ran the wrong way
and completely missed
the stop at Union Square.
Instead of going to work
people went home and
chose to eat peas for
dessert instead of cake.
At the dinner table
they spoke of the universe
rather than politics and
believed in themselves,
settling for nothing
less than perfect.
I headed south to
Oakland and everything
seemed so alive for once.
The people were the
happiest I've ever seen.

I woke up by your side
the next morning and
watched as your hands
shone like silk in the sunlight
coming through the
room's only window.
The dream resided in those
hands, if only I could
touch them without
waking the dreamer.

I said love, but the world said hatred.
I said comfort, but America charged and cried "money!"
I said health, but the doctors told me sickness.
Never had I spoken upon such deaf ears.
I whispered everything, but the wind said nothing.
I told the sky my secrets, but it didn't keep them quiet.
I loved a cloud once, but it rained on my parade.
Now I can't even trust myself.
I babbled mama, but she said shhh.
I mumbled peace, but the director spoke "oil."
I screamed Honesty, but no one heard me.

Our parents fell in love
at the intersection of
Greed and Corruption.
"It was destined to never
work out" they said, but
we didn't believe them.
We were told to live with
our father, because he
valued freedom and justice
and though we had our
rough times, it was fine
until we turned two-hundred
and thirty two. "I've had
enough," he said, and
abandoned all three-hundred
million of us. We had no choice
but to occupy the streets
and hope our father changed
for the better. It's been over
a month now and he still
shows no signs of allowing
us to come back home.
All we want is to sleep in
our own beds, in our own
houses and believe he
is still the man who values
freedom and justice.

I was making a sandwich
for the customer with green eyes
when Amanda came in and said,
"look for the printed word."
I had no idea what it meant
but I continued making the man's
turkey pastrami on rye.
She left without buying her usual
pumpkin cookie and soy chai latte,
extra foam of course.
Was this some sort of riddle,
about how a raven
is like a writing desk?

I looked through the produce
hoping to find a scrap of crumpled
paper among the peaches.
Then to the juice bar, even
sifting through the pulp of
discarded apples and kale.
I asked the cooks in the back
if they had seen any odd words
around, but they said no.
The intercom howled "Thank you
for shopping at Jimbooooo's…Naturally!"
when it hit me. I rushed back
toward the sandwich bar and
inspected the guacamole.
And the seed of the avocado
sitting next to it read,
"Neon fruit supermarkets
attract a lonely Whitman."

are unstable
pill poppers that
can't make up their mind.
Often get mistaken
for rambling thoughts
and go to trial for
having *** in public
places. Many have
tattoos and are a
bad influence on
your children. The
last one I saw caught
a ride to Greenwich
Village from a trucker
who reeked of *****.
If you ever see a poem
in your neighborhood,
please call the fire
department to put
it out before it
spreads like wildfire.

This heart does not
beat for me or them
for the whiskey or
the American sin
nor the outstretched
hand of greed in
countries where
their citizens don't
even have the basic
right to eat (animals).
The rhythmic thwap,
thwap, thwap is not
for the rushing rivers
in Colorado, nor for
the glowing canyons
of Utah or the grassy
hills in Amherst, not
even for the grandest
of all canyons (ever)!
Because I have an
angry heart filled with
cancers and pesticides
and processed sugars,
I'm sure of [my health].
No one ever told me
the American dream
was to die of McDonald-
ization or Burger King
Nation or a slew of other
man-made diseases.
My congested arteries
thank you, capitalism.
My oil-coated cells want
to shake hands with the
one and only Donald
Trump. My rotting lungs
and intestines can't wait
to meet the President.
My heart beats for you,
America (the beautiful).

Home
Nineteen years, eleven weeks, and thirty two days
Nothing left to explore
You've got my good side, bug

Seven hundred and forty eight
Eight weeks here is long enough
Thoughts wander everywhere but south
No job, no money
Stuck again

Three thousand, one seventy seven
Who needs to have a plan, I don't
I'll pay it off when I get there
Twelve weeks, I said
Month six, still here and bored
Can't go east
North it is

Two hundred eighty five
Not quite a straight shot, but almost
Got stopped at the border
I look suspicious
I'm American
Five hours later
Oh sweet travel bug
In Montreal