1. Fruitvale Bridge Park where fresh water mixes with ocean tides, storm drains from Oakland empty into its mouth wide open rents are industrial and zoned cheap, homeless hold out
floating on my back murmurs from the shore a lifeguard’s whistle boogie boards water color red a cloud of seaweed hisses of bubbles dissolve my feet scissors to locksmith time
The old woman who lived in the bottom apartment called me. Her name was Basuma. Freckles covered her hands and arms and made her look like a ripe banana. She
Mother of Pearl door, Istanbul Nails cut red sea scallops into her thumb Held back from digging deeper. What was the point? He’d shut his Facebook door Disenfranchised her from
It’s hard to be a bird Do what you were born to do Knowing no one’s Gonna come back Flying through the trees To feed you your grub Like in
I saw you wearing a NYPD T-shirt subscribed to your graveyard of ex-lovers buried behind the house near the burn pile incinerated from memory a lead-in to a song coming