The following is based on a true story. This dude came into my work 3 years ago and literally did not possess the vocabulary to order his food. I don't know what his story is, but he inspired this piece.

"ill literacy"

He spoke in code
like birds perched
on branches
singing
unintelligible tunes
only they understand

I watched him
in silence
my voice boxed in
my voicebox in
shock
at the witnessing
of a mis-education

illiteracy
personified

another
foster child
of the SUSD system
just another
“unreachable” student
deemed
“just another”

<17%
of stocktonians
have college degrees
17%
such
a juvenile #
18%
leastwise
is more
adult-sounding

in front
of every high school
is a flag

red
white
blue

ring
----------
middle
----------
index

only
the “just anothers”
can read
between the lines

No town homes in my hometown
We throw up and we throw down
Drinks pour up, tears pour down
No outlet in this port town

Glass crumbs and shards
elephant-skinned sidewalks smeared with tomato paste
the streets remember
potato-tipped death machines
starchy falsetto bullets
the cracking
window
skull
smushy hamburger meat brain
meet bullet—meet steering wheel—meet
                                ster
e
                     ­                                                 o

my little brother stays in a shelter
on American and California
where babies
sit themselves
change
is a dollar short
and DST
stands for daylight shootings time

Grandfather time
please stroke your shredded wheat goatee just a little longer
postpone apocalyptic
soon the children will hop skotch on chalked body silhouettes
and jumprope with bungie cord intestines

But not him
my little commando
he will find a way out
depart from home plate
three strikes carved on a flaming chariot
soaring through the sky like barbasol jet streams
the great
                                                           ­          escape

my tongue is a tap dancer
clicking its heels on your milk dud areolas
up
          down
side
          to
side

you jump on me
like a black friday bargain
my hands squeeze your backside like oranges
I feel your juices
and enter the slip ‘n slide
with no swim trunks

we tango with lace intact
there’s a reason
why lingerie contains “linger”
it resonates
the liminal space between
conservative and risqué
is appeeling/stemulating
the trailer’s tease
often surpasses
the film itself

funny
how baby oil is used in adult situations
losing my grip
on your hips
but
there is something else
connecting us
even when
this something slides out
still
there is something else
connecting us

i spill dairy creamer
on your cappuccino complexion
splash
we don’t say anything
at first
just exhales
but we’re thinking
“awwwww yeaaaaaaa”

we fall back on a cloud
naked
like the truth riding a schwinn through the castro
your ear is to my chest now
you bust a freestyle over my heartbeat
with halfway-incoherent post-*** talk

i’ve never told you this
but this
is my favorite moment
when we are free from everything
and free from nothing
for a brief period of time
the adam and eve
of our own world

parched tongue
please
mister
cola
carmex
these cracked lips
it's time
to hydrate
this carbo
bi-
sickling
through vacant streets
for a cure
my tummy
is like this town
a desiccant cactus
it's 12 a.m.
in stockton
12 amens
spew
from dry desert gums
i sea
liquor store
icee
soda
this is
no mirage
i found
atlantis
at the bottom
of a coke bottle

peddling back home
         peddling
                 peddling
stop
I dropped


My holy grail
He stops
Is he thirsty?
He pulls knife
Like a sleeved playing card
“give me your ****”
Poor minus poor
0-0
=0
Or X0
After he cheapshots me
Fist meet face
Face meet fist
obliged
Profit
10 cents
Gym membership
Fuzzy lint *****
But not my soda
Or my sweat
Or my tears
Or my blood
It’s time
To hydrate

I tried
Slashing the wrists of poverty
With an EBT swipe
But he isn’t merely food stamps
He is needle
He is malt
Licker of oppressed *******
****** dreams
*******’d by sored gums

The 3 am twilight blues his sandpaper skin
A beast-like hue
she feels down
So he lifts her spirits
By the neck
Like a Heineken
“DO NOT call the cops”
His words sharp objects
He speaks machete fluently
I freeze
He ice skates on my childhood
Blades figure eights on my frosty irises
His face switches from blue to red
Like 3D glasses
I think of alps in the summertime
Defrosted mountains unveiled
******-Doo villains
The much-awaited unmasking
One time he shoves her
And murders a generation
Her run-ons have become clauses
Short.
Incomplete.
Terminated.
I smell miscarriage on her breath
Now her voice carries
What her stomach cannot