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).

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.

You're holding a grenade
made of words and paper.
Do with it what you will.
No one will ever know
if you decide to pull the pin
for if you do, these words
will explode upon impact.

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

Demand the climate obeys orders.
seek vengeance on the scientists if it declines.
turn over the redwoods to the firing squad
     for taking a stand.
shake a fist at the sky till it blushes.
request the clams to clam up till you're done talking.
hide the fish in the sea
     because everyone needs one.

Expect the mule to make up its mind.
tempt the desert with some water.
torture the water with some desert.
attack the salt flats for being too dry.
file a complaint against the rattlesnakes
     for causing such a ruckus.
question the cactus till they give up their values.

Force the leaves to show their true colors.
slaughter the weeds 'cause they don't belong here.
silence the wind till it agrees to stop singing.
moon the moon for serving moonshine.
sentence squirrels to a life without acorns.
terrorize the trees to do your ***** work.

Infringe on the kumquat's rights.
bury the berries, uproot the roots,
     ravage the cabbage, spoil the soil.
arrange the oranges to reflect the sun.
lecture the watermelons on how
     you scalped more natives than anyone.
declare war on the avocados to prove your point.

Nag the children to bear the weight on their shoulders.
rifle through the planets to find what you want.
crack open a book and read a poem
     that defines this all as the

End.

The Ocean whispered to me once
as I hovered twenty feet above it
The shore was frozen at the sand
a blanket of white foam stuck in time
Rivers turned into trees, their
roots longing to return to the city
The sunbathed mountains
looked over and laughed.

O gloomy hazy heirs of Oakland, if it weren’t for your less-than

     desirable height I might love you

I spilled my Boston absurd imaginations into your night and got

     nothing back but muffled vibrations

Your ******* statues aren’t quite a turn-on to the starry-eyed mill-

     ions who walk your streets each day

Excess scores of madmen seep out of your unwashed pores

Was it your love that kept me gazing at cloudy skies?

Was it your hands that built the offices of unkempt loneliness?

The vacant-eyed gargoyles won't stop staring at my book of angels

     where I keep my holy...
Your dumb ears refuse to listen to that which is greater than my

     childhood dreams

Grand Ave. took me to the top of the 80 and I cried and shouted

     obscenities of pure joy

“Beautiful! Oh beautiful! People!” “Perfection! You crave perfection!”

“Attention! Help me you beautiful people!”

I

If I were a poet
I would compose beautiful line
breaks and elegant stanzas.

Similes would be ******* scattered
with alliteration like
stars against a sunset sky.

My tone would be of reason
rather than innocence.
I would refuse to analyze
the meaning of death in literature.

              II

Fortune cookies would be my mantra
and life would be a wiggle
instead of a struggle.

I would pray five times a day
to my journal
most benevolent, ever-merciful.

My poems would not be of peace
of war
or (you)nity
or them here Amur'cans.

              III

My form would be indifferent
and probably never earn me awards
or acceptance to grad school.

Fondness of (parentheses)
may get me compared to e.e. cummings
or completely dismissed
if I were a poet.

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.

There's a rainbow in the corner of my window
it must be saying something.
The clouds are gay! The lakes are gay!
The trees are gay! The airplane is gay!
The flight attendant is gay!
Houses hidden in the hills below look up
and wonder if I'm gay too.
The sun hiding at the edge of a cloud
tells me the ocean's gay didn't we know?
She has a fluid sexuality and loses her
temper sometimes we call it flooding.
The sky declared itself androgynous
and changes genders every twelve hours.
The sunset is proudly bisexual
and displays both pink and blue every evening
as it heads to the club and the sky switches genders.
The city of San Francisco is gay!
and the rainbow disappears.

If I were to imagine what a drink feels like
it would be the rain in Humboldt County.
A blanket of cold falling upon me,
eventually making its way to my ears
never letting up, my vision is fog.

Hazy, unrelenting
until the glass becomes a mug
of hot cider, releasing me from the
reality of a stone-cold winter.

Airport shops are something peculiar
selling everything useless
except books and this little pen that fits in my pocket!
Only in my boy jeans of course,
but would you know the airport
bookshop doesn’t even sell poetry?
As if the only ones cultured enough to read it
are those in the city who are
smart enough to never leave.
Or maybe they know that poets
spent the last of their money on the flight ticket
and can’t afford to buy from airport shops anyway.

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.

Approach the steps and the
bus driver says "Thanks You,"
ignoring the reality
he's driving a bunch of
broke-*** adults whose only wish
is to escape from the middle of nowhere.

Pass the cows, the one steer
in the dairy field stares at
me, looking down once we've left.
Eyes looked intelligent like he should've
been reading T.S. Eliot while sipping green tea.
The two-mile bay goes quickly, holding
its breath as we wave goodbye. It acts
like it never danced before.

Onto another town
the people can't wait to leave.
A crying child enters and the family moves
back, further back, to sit
behind me as I'm writing this poem.

I've never seen innocence so excited
to ride the Greyhound.
Innocence, why won't you shut up?
Failure, please stop glaring at her like that.
She's only a little girl. The smoke
stacks have no comment.

The truck driver keeps appearing
next to us trying to tell us we're all angels.
The trees around the lake agree.
The horses agree, if only
because we harness more horsepower.
The redwoods on each side of the highway
are blocking my view, but I don't
mind we're headed toward the future.
City lights are my future, fog
is my future. The 101 South is my future.
The woman two rows in
front of me sounds like a man.
(S)he is my future.

**** Rio Dell, there's nothing
to do there. Garberville isn't much better.
The green algae pond says hello.
"Will you save Richardson Grove?"
it asks. I didn't answer.

The winding roads are making
me insane. If I didn't
answer, would you notice?
Ferlinghetti must be driving because
he can't keep on track. Oh
where will you take us tonight?

I wake up to the mist on the
water holding my attention.
The Alcatraz of my mind saves
me from myself.