<\/p>\n
Geranium, red<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Like the flashing hand and count down numbers like fossil fuel rattling gears as it becomes motion like a young woman who slaps the ass of a bus passing her by like borrowed music from Mexico bouncing like Heinz fancy ketchup factory like twin t-shirts of two anarchists like a woman who wails in the privacy of a parking structure like low phantom noise that burns inside my ears or like a smelly flower that unfolds against the painted wall or the newly released hand that snaps it off <\/p>\n Cursive<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n The V of my legs over the black seat of his Yamaha forward, leave behind an almost hundred year old next to a used Cadillac dealership. We weave through an encampment of homeless, scattered office workers, to snake up hills.\u00a0 He points to the corner where I feel asphalt\u2014steamy in winter sun\u2014close to bone- on withdrawal papers.\u00a0 He says this<\/em> is more real the words I couldn\u2019t even put onto paper.\u00a0 I don\u2019t as it grips the road and jets us forward, now past dripping leaves. Past eucalyptus shedding swaths from the rain-loosened soil beneath shallow roots. ridge, below squares of metal and glass, bay waters Past us speed four Hell\u2019s Angels, their red-brown the road twists through evergreens, sometimes for lips underneath the helmet\u2019s mask. We then dip Here we stop. Walk out to a stretch of low hills, further eastward, over round hills tinged pink signed an X under his name for a farm in the shadows brown against grey then black against dark blue\u2014 until flesh and bone marry living wood, and exile Pull helmets tight over our heads. The cycle\u2019s light like a reversed writing over roads and leaves. I\u2019ll pour this writing into notebooks not to be half understood, soaks into pages now bathed from the dealership spotlights below while a man <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Sharon Coleman’s poems or blink fiction have appeared in\u00a0Caesura,\u00a0Criminal Class Review, Sparkle Blink, Blink Ink, Out of Our, Try!, The Walrus,\u00a0Syllogism,\u00a0Berkeley Poetry Review,\u00a0Ghost Town\/Pacific Review,\u00a0North Coast Literary Review,\u00a0Penumbra,\u00a0Folio, and online at\u00a0Lily,\u00a0Full of Crow\u00a0and\u00a0Dark Sky Magazine.\u00a0\u00a0She’s a contributing editor atPoetry Flash\u00a0and teaches poetry writing at Berkeley City College. She is a co-curator of the reading series Lyrics & Dirges in Berkeley. She was recently nominated for a Pushcart for blink fiction.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Geranium, red \u00a0 Like the flashing hand and count down numbers ……….warning me not to cross at Ashby & San Pablo like fossil fuel rattling gears as it becomes motion ……….under Walgreen\u2019s crimson signature like a young woman who slaps the ass of a bus passing her by ……….or a tired old woman cross […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1743","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\n
\n……….<\/span>warning me not to cross at Ashby & San Pablo<\/p>\n
\n……….<\/span>under Walgreen\u2019s crimson signature<\/p>\n
\n……….<\/span>or a tired old woman cross at her tired old man<\/p>\n
\n……….<\/span>from a SUV\u2014kids inside roll down windows
\n……….<\/span>to sing at this strange lady writing<\/p>\n
\n……….<\/span>refashioned into generic shops<\/p>\n
\n……….<\/span>who push a single black bike<\/p>\n
\n……….<\/span>her voice ricochets off hollow steel<\/p>\n
\n……….<\/span>then cooled by sea wind churning<\/p>\n
\n……….<\/span>of an auto repair\u2019s fix it all<\/p>\n
\n………<\/span>.<\/span>puts it in a jar to sprout.<\/p>\n
\ndoubles the V of his legs as tires grip asphalt, pull us<\/p>\n
\napartment house built for survivors of the quake<\/p>\n
\ndowntown, past droves of high school students,<\/p>\n
\ncity traffic, and leave behind the grid of city flats<\/p>\n
\nhe took a spill a week before in January rain, and<\/p>\n
\nbreaking acceleration that leaves behind my signature<\/p>\n
\nthan the classes I just dropped\u2014I no longer trusted<\/p>\n
\nbelieve him. Yet I tighten my thighs around the cycle<\/p>\n
\nSpanish-style homes behind wild landscapes,<\/p>\n
\nof bark and scented oxygen, threatening to fall<\/p>\n
\nThe steep climb evens out at the road along the hills\u2019<\/p>\n
\nbeyond reflect strewn specks of afternoon sun.<\/p>\n
\nhair streaming.\u00a0 We turn into the forest where<\/p>\n
\na skeletal winter branch that drips darkness, cold<\/p>\n
\ntoward the hills\u2019 eastern slope, a valley dotted by oaks.<\/p>\n
\ntall grass\u2014mud firm under our steps. I look<\/p>\n
\nin diminishing light, to where my great grandfather<\/p>\n
\nof Mount Diablo. Look into dusk of gnarled branches\u2014<\/p>\n
\noaken cursive arms to climb and lay my body in<\/p>\n
\nsoaks into roots then soil below. We walk back.<\/p>\n
\nbeams paths between dark trees, small glimpses,<\/p>\n
\nAlone at midnight and blanketed by darkness<\/p>\n
\nopened again for years\u2014ink of heartless words,<\/p>\n
\nby slits of lights through the apartment blinds<\/p>\n
\nwho walks the streets screams curses into his night.<\/p>\n