southside

tin cars
swell
and
drain
tin boxes
keep
and
contain
surface color
blocks
white sky
shame inside
memorialized
a bit down the
concrete
flowers caught in
hard teeth.

i stop.
i tie my shoe.
i see the old bones.

cyclical, like the
leaves soaked in rain.

the decaying past
a knowing grapefruit
scraping
wet mouth.

passing through the same street dotted with backpacks
passing the same houseless man
in his same blankets.

cyclical, i remind myself.

it is all and it is nothing

the future dug
out of time’s bloody belly
nourish it with pregnant words–
athena sprung whole from a head—
mine?

the buildings clustered–
what i think when i think city–
all winking brick and grimy sign
culture smells like dirty books
history smells like cigarettes
politics, everything

i buy coffee with cash...
my friend lives on that corner...
over there...

we smoke outside, sometimes,
when the weather isn’t so cold
watching
the bay and the bridge
holding up the horizon
blowing smoke clouds from
our chapped lips
the tower watches us
giant and still

the tower watches me now
refined curls of architecture
bell chimes bubbling on the wind
built on the bodies of people whose names i won’t know

i sit down in class.
my mind thirsty, succulent, unfurled.

still, berkeley lies untouched.