1. san diego wrapped in gray sky
and drizzles
that most people here mistake for rain
2. first pits
then moats
after the marigolds
the chocolate mint
the lime thyme
have been lowered
into the soil
3. sometimes
the confusion between honoring
where i am at
or
perpetuating patterns
is indiscernable
4. while you
take queer punkhouse tours (complete with raised beds
chickens
and a bike shack)
i am
shuffling through a pile of essays
purple-inked pen in hand
joke sent in along the textlines:
why do anarchists drink herbal tea?
because proper tea is theft.
5. if it were a film
there would be repetitions
of the same self
made of velum
scattered
across geography
and along the arc of time
we do not simply become ghosts
only when we pass through
we spend our whole life practicing
peeling our selves apart like mica
depositing the layers like snake skins
6. a woman’s voice sings opera
(the notes and the drum give away
her long black hair)
through the open window
between wake
and sleep
subconscious symphony folllows
detail collector 