Save Us From Our
Suburban Dreams

April 2001

Paradise didn’t look like the postcard.
​ You liked the palm trees, the hot tubs
​ the sex and the sand.

​ I liked the way you looked
​ in my green plastic lawn chair
​ with a beer in your hand.

​ How can I counter the allure
​ of 33rd and 3rd?
​ The taste of the Apple is already
​ on your tongue.

​ But a hot night will come,
​ when the space beneath your window
​ is wet with shrieks.
​ And iron smacks the sidewalk.
​ And even the birds can’t sleep.

​ Everything I have to offer here
​ is open wide.
​ The satin sky.
​ The sun.
​ The jeweled windows of the endless cars.
​ The 101.

​ All that I have to offer you
​ is open wide.
​ the unsung mystery of my missing years,
my arms….my eyes.

 

September, 2001

The city has fallen.
We have fallen with the city.
Where can I mourn?
White ash coats the canyon where our
terrible winter was born.

You will thrive among the ruins,
You’ll embrace your bright, familiar duty.
Nothing I have to offer has the power
of her angry, wounded beauty.

It was my city too.

I don’t think anyone hears my grief
by this shining western sea.
Take that cold ferry boat home, a’chara.
Take it for me.
You will never see the dawn of
this manifest destiny.

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