Toasted Johnny Ramone
Tasting large glasses of
Lubricant, stimulant, depressant
Took manic conversations
About the rhythm of political
style;
Coveted, conveyed, maneuvered
Sat out once or twice,
all the way through
Vacation (holiday) the trip…
Which day is it?
Moved through those
panoramic Hollywood
CGI sunsets
Swamped like some kind of
Louisiana monster
Arizona’s big skies
Made me think
of Oaklandish nights
Made me think
of basement pool games
Listening to
vinyl, spinning
around rooms
like pool was something
I could actually win
I like myself in red
angular collarbone,
pockets of skin and shadow
Like a lost Anne Sexton poem
Or some
lilting Gloria Stein lullaby…
There, but never there, and
inside of there
Everywhere
Like a raindrop engulfed
by the ocean
It doesn’t matter where
the rush bursts from:
That musical, half-hearted simple
sugar kiss of safety
Unrefined
Coming back in
through the clouds,
the plane shook, I argued
with a man who drove his knees
through my seat,
through my right side kidney
Tiny windows, peeking out
I looked for my house
Anything to ground me—
insides zinging
an electrical storm
heavy-handed, waiting
for the pop of ear drums
And off the plane, replenished
Outside the terminal
Oakland International
inhaling gritty city, listening
to the barking sheriffs
and finally smoking,
even though I know
The Risks
Oakland means real records
means 12, 5, 7 inch
means the way it looks, looks
mean
but underneath
tenderhearted
deep-rivered
soft under our silver, black,
yellow, white,
green skins…
Oaksterdam
I said to the man at the tent
tasting fried Twinkies, berry sauce
hot, sweaty, sunburned;
this year’s Art and Soul Festival
the Reviews; the Reports;
all the renegades
Oakland is big in heart
and big in the britches
and big in the ballpark, big with
boldness, with burdens, with
bright lights and eclipsed avenues—
Dreams fail, succeed
Nights
Spent blabbering to taxi-men
Kim’s Backyard;
Baggy’s by the Lake;
Fourteenth Street
Webster/ Posey tube; all clanking
out a syncopated tap dance
It’s like the rhythm of the city
underground, pulsing, spaced in
triplicate traintracks
tumbling out of the there
like
an e.e. cummings poem
wrapped with a Sylvia Plath bow
I could never be Jack London
Locked in a log cabin
Too much or not enough;
that sky, broadened
I need buildings
Lake fronts
Rapt store clerks
Attentive street crossers
wildness, smells, city
Streets like a split prism
and the wobbles
Of earth, the trembles
I need Realfolk
Folk that are foiled, spoiled,
toiling; pretending
I need nostalgic hippies and grandmothers
Plus misfit migrants
Plus fanciful Runners
circling round that lake where
I look for low planes
Cruising laden skies
I need this city
Like blood needs a vein
Like fissures need a wall
Like noise needs a Racket
Like Han Solo needs to say,
“I know…”
Like the things you never think
show up
Unannounced
Like a rabbit captured
In a wild underpatch briar,
caught in the bramble—truth;
riveted…
This heart beats
metronome steady—
with Oakland.
10/28/2004