"fremont" poems
There is fire above the neon
Their shine and burn so eloquent yet brash
I am trapped beneath Fremont Street
and I hear exodus—
I am trapped beneath Fremont Street
My coffin is lined with casino carpet
The embers of cigarette ash
Burn wild within me
I want to move to Sahara Avenue
and live amongst the cracked asphalt
So I can catch a glimpse of
The Genesis I am missing
So next I am under Main Street
where the sweltering desert meets
the diminished pavement;
the metal statues that hold blinking lights
I am trapped beneath Fremont Street
As I gaze into the deep, wide Mojave
Oh, Deuteronomy, it is I,
the one you so eagerly seek!
Paradise, 2018
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
Purple tips softly graze the tops of the golden fields.
Vines line the wire fences
Grapes as supple as your lips.
Motors and metal wind down the valley floors
Hills between Sonoma and napa shimmer with darkness.
The trees line the tips of each hill creating shadows following the ridges.
Twangy sounds of banjos strum in the background
Familiar laughter. Common conversation.
Passing the Fremont diner, Steinbecks route is traveled again
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
Shady streets of Shattuck
and Telegraph, home to ever-present
drifters and hep, and ever-present woe
won't you sing beneath the stars and traffic lights?
for whether or not dawn is breeching, the moon
like a jealous sibling in cosmic conflict.
We need another glass
I fill mine with the good stuff
with a splash and to ignite a crutch
so that we might have pillows like
clouds of smoke to rest our restless, gaping,
restless, wicked, pinned pupils, we make
our own boundaries, our own expectations, which,
in and of themselves are beautiful articulations of
day by day. This moment we wave goodbye.
Spitting out ill-gotten thoughts, unfiltered
with hope and prayer that in the morning
we will be back at the old familiar station
dripping with contentment and familiar
that home is right under our feet. The Bart,
more like a vessel than I have ever known
who makes voyages feel like calmly strolls
through parks which lead us to San Leandro
to Oakland, to Daly City, to Ashby and Fremont
tasting and smelling home when we reach old San Jose
upon another transit that sways all the way
to Santa Cruz to home and relief, and the load lessens
to a stop, although I truly feel we've started over
to begin, although the bright, bright lights blink
off and on for me as we stray homeward, as if to say
"We will see."
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 9:51 AM UTC
walking home at something like one o’clock
this man has his belongings
spread across the width of the sidewalk
spilling over into the grass on either side
he’s standing right in the middle of the **** pile
so I get to him as I inevitably would
thankfully protected from conversation
by audio-technica
I sidestep him and his specialty garbage
smiling broadly at inaudible snarling
and shouting I blissfully ignore
for several blocks
until this car’s lights flash
as it passes me on Fremont
a blue smudge floats about my right eye
I blink and the smudge begins again only clearer
again quickly
again again
blink blink
wink
is that a knife?
a spiral of increasingly recognizable knives
swirls about my eye
pivoting with my left
I swing my right foot clockwise
to turn around and pause
my right heel against the pavement
with my toes pointed up
I carefully adjust my headphones
as I gaze intently toward a figure in the distance
he doesn’t feel so distant
nope
I take a couple steps backward
not breaking my gaze
then turn abruptly forward
hastening my pace
I don’t need to run
he’s not that close
just walking quickly, maybe briskly
should be enough to make it home
I don’t know
he won’t follow me
not all the way at least
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
Years later what you will remember most is the sunshine
And the way it pooled in the streets in the summertime
Pulling colors off of buildings like taking washing off the line
Painted bodies everywhere, laughing as they waltz through the city
There is no difference between red yellow black white or grey
It’s all just more color, people splattered with diversity
Climbing the trees to decorate with rainbow streamers
In their doorways stand hesitant half-believers
Pass me the pipe and count me with the dreamers
And the rest of the world, they call us freaks
We might as well be hipsters hippies jocks nerds geeks
Here definition is something no one seeks
Children at play is all we have ever been
Hoping our mothers won’t catch us fighting again
Let your hate go, let your mind heart and eyes open
Love is what ties us together, what makes us strong
You don’t have to prove that you’re right or I’m wrong
Just raise your voice and join in the throng
We’ll climb through your windows and through your walls
Claiming plaster back to nature, painting flowers down your halls
Planting trees in the classrooms and the public toilet stalls
We won’t rest, no we won’t wait until every stretch
Of old stone house and weathered park bench
Of city block and building’s been covered in some colorful sketch
Say what you will, we are who we are
It's our hopes for the future that have led us this far
We're not afraid, not alone, though the lines may blur
We stand for a future with no hate at all
We stand for human rights and we will not fall
We're the people of Fremont and we stand tall
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
We like to think about a lot of things.
Everyone's got an opinion about humanity,
about God, about society, about illusion,
about beauty, about most everything.
We're allowed to have these opinions.
We're allowed to draw whatever is in our filthy heads
and write whatever words spring to our fingertips
and we're allowed to call it art.
Someone questioned this system, this reality once or twice,
Said maybe it shouldn't be this way. Asked why,
and what and where and how
They were expected to believe in this ****
Asked who wrote the book that says we have to be like this.
Said, would it matter if I just left you all behind?
They found him at nine in the morning about to jump from the Fremont Bridge, ready to take the plunge into the frigid water.
He jumped eventually but missed and hit the hard cold unforgiving pavement and broke lots of bones but lived.
I wonder if he found something to live for,
Or if they put him on the pills and locked him away like all the rest.
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 11:09 PM UTC
He rides the bus
To the BTC
And breathes in
The smell of the city:
Cigarettes and homeless men
He smiles at strangers
From strange lands
And meets the locals
On Fremont
He sings in the bars
And dances at midnight
With the performers
Enfrente del Bellagio
He howls at the moon
With the manic pixies
In the parks
Near the gas stations
He buys his wine
At the Lee's on Sahara
And turns it to water
For the candy kids
Jesus saves sinners
From boring Friday nights
In my city
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 6:15 PM UTC
oh puissant orchid
her kiss pursue
tell of a harlot
with malapropos foreseen
that itinerate she reckons
her untoward Soviet
from a storied depot now
a' la bleeding cape
and their diaphragm regime
but she's flagrant in Fremont
only so that he died as much again
with her earth scorched bear
whether desert storm's hand here
her beads oft rise a heroine.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
I fell in love with this town
This town called Sin City
As an adult ironically
I was eight or nine
It's nothing to do until you're of age
So I waited out of spite
When I was twenty-one
I fell in love
I won in craps, played blackjack
I even saw my first pair of bountiful *******
It made me blush
Vegas is home of the glitz
The glamour
The clubbing
Fremont Street
The dancers
But today...
In this time of uncertainty
Pray for the City of Sin
They need it.
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 1:40 AM UTC
Happy Sad.
It’s not a great feat to conjure happy writing or happy experiences
Mostly everyone is completely able bodied to do so.
Writing dark just gathers attention and is so much easier to write due to relativity.
When something feels good. It blends in with mundanity. When something hurts. It stands out.
Attention seeking is ****** Vacuous is one who engages in such activities.
Therefore I will write a happy poem...
I’m about to eat a steak.
In a cabin that was built in the 20s.
It had the first flushing toilet in sublet county.
I climbed today, nothing difficult. But it was very enjoyable above Fremont lake.
Now, sitting here on this ancient deck. In utter silence besides the Birds. I don’t feel accomplished. I feel comfortable. I can’t and don’t have anything to prove.
It’s only been an adventure. Starting out with rolling my friends Jeep. And then not telling his father. But rolling it back over with a sketchy high lift jack setup as a winch.
I can’t really see any point in holding onto grudges. But honestly I know they’ll come back as soon as I get back to civilization. That disgusts me about myself. I enjoy the bliss of being without malice, however I do not avoid it beholding me again even after self reflection.
How pitiful.
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 2:13 PM UTC