San Francisco is a Tree
I come into the tunnel at Civic Center BART
The one where people set up camp
Practically living there until the gate goes down
Sitting on the floor all day on the
Nod begging for change then
Running upstairs to Leavenworth to
Cop and then back down to
Shoot and nod and beg again
Another man is screaming in pain and
No one cares
I don’t really care
Enough to write about it but that’s
Not enough to help
I don’t know him
Even though I see him every day
He’s not my friend
In his manifesto, the architect,
Christopher Alexander talks
About city design in terms of
Lattices and trees
That is, either laced together or
Branched apart
A city is not a tree,
He says
…but I’m not so sure if it matters too much when
so much of reality is caused by the
lies in our heads
I get down to the platform and
Every sign down there is advertising
A raffle where they are giving away
A luxury home
Just giving it away
to someone who
almost definitely
already has one
Yes, I still think about you…
But not in a dreamy, sentimental way
I remember you in the Eula Hotel
Propeller hands spun without conscience
Fists hitting me over and over
(I remember you hitting me a lot,
It stayed with me for some reason;
I remember every time you did it
And I will probably never forget.)
The cops got called eventually
Because you wouldn’t leave and
I didn’t want to kill you
In a Mission hotel room
In self-defense
That was an unconscionable ending for me
And someone had to have a conscience that night
Even though I was psychotic
At the time
I felt and
still feel
more sane than you
My Borderline baby
I remember holding my painting
In front of my face to protect me from you and
I remember you slapping it away
I recall how righteous you looked and felt
“You call that art?”, you said.
I remember that
When the cops came I told them
I don’t want to press charges but
One of us needs to leave this room and
It’s not going to be me
Officer, “Please, take my wife.”
So yes, I still think about you,
Every day
Your need to always be right
Your nasty habit of abusing the mentally ill
Above all, your father’s legacy of violence that
You never quite got all the way over
Your brilliant art, yes, that too,
But also your low self-opinion
Your secret inadmissible belief that
Your deformity made you unlovable
Your victim complex
Your disregard of all of my opinions because,
The sick are never allowed to be right so,
Why encourage them?
Yes, I still think about you
Much more often than I would like
Algorithmic Love
This algorithmic woman she
has perfect pitch she
never graces a note
Through faking it
She wants absolute trust in
the absolute truth and
is ready to begin this
adventure
today!
This woman she lives her life
on settings
The kinds of games she
likes to play are So
interactive you will
actually feel the pain
In fact you’ll be wantin’ to
give a testimonial:
I was high and dry
(What a loser!)
Til I got myself my
algorithmic love
2 Pauls
(for PCR)
And lo, a man came into the world
Bearing the name of the Saint of all conformists
Perhaps, in small part,
To save the name
(A nice Jewish one,
in need of some defense)
He did many good works
Many many many many many many many many many good works
And he didn’t even write any silly
Letters telling us how to fuck, if we must
How to pray, not to worry so much about
What we ate, whom to persecute
Behold, there was Paul and anti-Paul
David and Goliath, Alpha and Omega
And though the words of the one
Shall not eclipse the other’s
Let them go out into the world,
And do their work
Let them go out
