One drummer
Plays in his one-man golden gate garage band on an askew street
Cymbals echo for several blocks
My father yearns to question tourists, though
If he says
“I am like you,” it
Nullifies my memories.
- A man hiding in the bushes, unaware of his own scent
Cannabis and salty air,
Startled me as I ate
- An ambiguity between legs and
The trees of Muir Woods that only
Made me question my vision–
Was my hair actually akin to Lombard Street?
I am not like you
Mom made me stand in every cell in Alcatraz in front of
Decaying walls like sunburned skin
I can’t bind myself to this history, and to suns that bleed like molten lava
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