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.
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.
