(Oakland)







Make it



the place



it was then,







so full it split



vision to live



there in winter







so late & wet



abundance



toppled toward







awful—birds



of paradise



a profusion







the ripe colors



of anodized



metal; in gutters







umbrellas



smashed



like pigeons,







bent ribs bright



among black



slack fluttering;







camellias’



pink imagoes



dropping







into water



& rotting,



sweet stink—







& did not



stop :



the inundated







eye, over-



populous



urban eye,







the whole



place, to look



at it, was







a footprint



in January :



everywhere







cloudy water



rising to fill in



the outlines,







& meanwhile



indoors differed



by degree







alone : without



love, loosed



from God,







there were



lovers & touch



rushing in







to redraw



your boundaries



constantly







because



it was a tune



you kept







getting wrong,



the refrain



of what it meant







to live alone,



months of that



and then







.







sudden summer, sheer release, streets all cigarettes & sashay,



balls-out tube tops, low-riders & belly fat, the girls on the block







all like Oh no she didn’t, and girl, she did, she was mad skills



with press-ons & a cell phone telling him where to stick it, a kid







on her hip, just like that, summer, sheer beauty & lip gloss



that smelled like peaches, & you going to the store for whiskey







& condoms like everyone else on a hot, long afternoon



so long & hot it would just be sunburn to walk anywhere if it weren’t also







a pleasure, thoughtless & shiftless & horny & drunk,



just someone thinking summer wasn’t up to anything deep, & lo







there he was, his punk ass pink as a Viking in a tight



wifebeater & lingering by the public pool, drinking beer so sly







it didn’t look illegal, & he wasn’t a good idea but



did you have a light? & it seemed the whole summer went like that,







taking fire out of your pocket & giving it away, a ditty



you could whistle it was so cliché, like the numbers they gave you after







& you never called, the number of swollen nodes of the kissing



colds you got & later the number to call to get tested, the number of the bus







to the clinic, the number they gave you when they asked



you to wait, the number of questions asked, number of partners, number







of risks, number of previous tests, the number of pricks



—one—to draw the blood, the number of minutes you waited before







results, & then you decided you had to get the tune right,



the how to live it so it doesn’t kill you, to take a number & wait in the long line







of the city’s bankrupt humanism like the bus that never comes



no matter how long you wait, & the grocery bag breaking, & if you were going







to sing that one, the one that sounds like all I got is bruised



tomatoes, broken glass & dirty bread & no one waiting at home, would you







.







start with genius,



as in, the spirit



of a place?,







& small, as in



of the back, wet



in heat







& the urge



to touch him



there, skin







just visible



between his jeans



& t-shirt,







to see if



he’s sweating,



to see







if he feels



what you feel?,



& if he does,







is that all



the spirit the place



will give,







a small thing



shared, just



a phrase, not







a whole song,



but something



to build on?,







& if it isn’t bread



& if it sure



ain’t tomatoes







it isn’t empty,



is it, like the signage



you walk by







that fronts



the Lakeside



Church of Practical







Christianity,



hawking



a knowledge of God







so modest



it seems trivial?,



& it isn’t ever,







is it, the how



to live it



so it doesn’t







kill you,



the where



to touch it,







the when



will genius



sing your name







so it sounds



like a place



you can live?





