heroisch part ii

“Any ache or pain or sadness or guilty feeling
was completely flushed out”

in the West,

he watched the sun hit upon
Eucalyptus trees. he stared
into the eyes of others, charting

their beauty and their weaknesses.
like so many before him, he marveled
in the hope of this city, and

managed to gather his abilities to
heal and protect. his selfless self-sacrifice.
he met another wandering figure,

she was as lonely and trapped as he was
over-virtuous, they followed each
others golden paths for a short time.

but the beat hit and hit again,
as the voices and footsteps sounded.
imagining painful rejection

he gathered the strength
from an internal power, praying to
Jung, Nietsche & his personal deity.

the pride was infecting,
but the realities debilitating,
as the past continued to move

within his veins, and the present
longed for a stability but only came
in bites and chunks like a fairground ride.

he fought with the actual,
pushing and persevering though the
city seemed a bitch, and a whore.

***

so he decided to return.

back to the coldness, as his feet
seized and ran – still chasing to find
what he has been looking for.

back to the coldness, like the
Prodigal wandering back, the memories
more wrong than first imagined.

back to the coldness, where the
snow dances in the light at dawn
whilst he stands alone.

he knew, deep down, that he had to
protect and defend himself. he knew that he
needed to push past the negativity

and try once more.

for home is where the mind and
heart are, and his home was no longer
the place he originated from, but here.

ariel strums

vocalist
in the wilderness
of the acoustic
mic

the simple
disappointment
first cuts me
quick.

ariel strums through neon

flames on bead with corduroy shirt

mario brings on highway speed

glass crash smash over wine

moth swoops, turns and touches.

i turn to
a place where
i can no stronger
see

i plan
my attack
on the stage
bound and

fingering froth.

the familiar

the familiar made unfamiliar
through distance
through
time,
creeping back in to

those fields that flow
to the
valley,
to the
brook.

those trees that know
my past,
those which
i walked
beside

for eighteen long years.
i always
imagined
beyond
the grey skies;

beyond
the green
that seemed
so dull,
always

reaching for the unfamiliar.

yuppies

The top dogs --
With their pot of gold --
have all the luck,
Without even knowing it

without

my fingers tap

a rhythm,
a melody,

without any place to go.

i feel a deep loss

to be,
away,

from my love.

from

my passion,
my strength,

they linger,

without.

light over tar

light
over tar.

reflecting shadows

in the noon air.

flight
shines red.

orange, and white;

whilst
the insects

bounce back

in the breeze
to the trees.

bilingue

a horn sounds in the mission
waking the morning up,

as
the men go to sit in the streets
waiting,

on césar chavez,
on Harrison,
by the Salvo.

as
the women go to look after kids
that aren’t theirs.

their parents wanting to save,
and like the idea
d’être

Bilingue.

Bilingual, like the
neighbourhood itself

mixing and diversifying

the real mission
from
the fake mission.

the artists and the poets
think it is oh so hip

d’être
une partie
de la communauté.

all the while--



a horn sounds in hayes valley
waking the afternoon up.

in hayes valley,
in the marina,
in SOMA,

as
ladies and gents
with
more money than sense

ignore the reality,
of any given situation.

in favour
of good fun,
designer clothing,
spending each meal.

they favour,
a Cosmo over a Tequila;
they favour,
Armani over the Salvo;
they favour,
Chevys over Taquería Cancun.

they walk in their heels

as
the people in the streets are stepped over,
by these, their wealthier neighbours

but deep down they know
it’s their city too.

they know
they are
Bilingual.


a horn sounds in the mission,
waking the evening up.

as
the kids
in bright clothes

leave their
fancy loft apartments
head off to the bars
to defina

as
the families sit down
to eat,

grandmother
with grandchild,

their flauntas,
their papusas.


i know i don’t even
begin
to understand

the complexity

of this situation.

i know that this
may
be the most

naïve thing

you’ve ever heard.

i know that i’m
an
outsider

looking in
at the thousands
of residents
of this insane city.

in this city
in this country.

i know that i’m
a
foreigner

a green card holder
through
luck,
and a failed marriage.

but still

i feel as though

i bilingue

(though maybe that’s just
a fallacy).

but --
anyway --

whether its right or its wrong

i can spend a hour
of my time

marking

a sight/site

or two.

je t'aime

je t'aime,
je t'aime,
oh ouais! je t'aime.

mon amour,
mon ami,
mon destin.