1. WHALE BUS SCHEDULE
In 1900, an artist saw a twenty-first century
where people strap trolleys
to the bellies of whales, and ride beneath them
on underwater excursions. The whale
is a mere conveyance, and swims impassively
through the subterranean currents
like a horse with a hundred saddles.
The commuters are unimpressed
by the improbability of their transport
as they wait for their stops with impatience,
angry that once again, the whale is running late.
Exhausted, they stare through the windows
at passing seaweed, neon fish, and anemones
that can't stop waving at the whale bus
no matter how many times they see it.
In 1900, an artist saw a twenty-first century
where people strap trolleys
to the bellies of whales, and ride beneath them
on underwater excursions. The whale
is a mere conveyance, and swims impassively
through the subterranean currents
like a horse with a hundred saddles.
The commuters are unimpressed
by the improbability of their transport
as they wait for their stops with impatience,
angry that once again, the whale is running late.
Exhausted, they stare through the windows
at passing seaweed, neon fish, and anemones
that can't stop waving at the whale bus
no matter how many times they see it.
The passengers clutch their briefcases and grocery bags
and watch carefully as each stop arrives.
They swim away, oxygen tanks securely attached,
while new people enter the whale bus,
fold up their tanks like umbrellas, then
place them beside their feet in neatly folded piles,
careful not to make too much of a mess.
No one knows what the whale is thinking.
God-like, he floats near the surface,
trolley dangling underneath: his body
is the cable that holds the world together.
The passengers trust that he won't let go
and send them plummeting to the ocean floor,
and he doesn't disappoint-he even arrives early
to his final destination, and has a few extra minutes
for a smoke before he has to turn around
and start the journey all over again.
***
2. NORTHWEST SOMA
Medical cannabis storefronts
dot Sixth Avenue
like illuminated ships.
The sturdy doors are
embellished with
crudely painted green crosses
which offer relief
from chronic pain,
and neon signs flash
tantalizing messages, like
“six dollar grams”
and “purple kush special.”
Some of the blocks
have turf wars
between medical
and recreational marijuana,
and the two storefronts
sit beside each other
like opposing sports teams
waiting to compete
on the field of capitalism.
The state vows
to shut down
the medical cannabis outlets
because they don't pay taxes,
but the owners are shrewd
and get legal injunctions
so they can stay open
for a few more months.
On the corner of
Sixth and Proctor
one of the medical
cannabis employees
smirks and says to me
repeatedly, “Stay medicated!”
then gives me a free half-gram
to help with the process.
Meanwhile, in Texas,
people can still get life in prison
for marijuana brownies.
Guess I won't be moving there
any time soon.
It's worth putting up
with the rain.
***
3. REFUGEES
I hope this deluge of rain
will submerge my grief,
let it rise like steam
and disappear into the sky.
Outside my window,
drops turn into lakes
and roil with gusts of wind
from unknown sources.
We discuss the weather
as if our words
wielded absolute control,
could end the dull parade
of promises, the hammering
of idle vengeance.
I have no chance to feel
the personal, when the political
is the same storm, the same
drumbeat of water.
To even speak of it seems selfish,
like a dilettante checking her hair
in the mirror, while Paris burns.
The refugee and my sister
both at the butt of a gun,
everyone looking the other way
while the trigger is pulled.
Meanwhile, the pleas
for boots on the ground,
as if they weren't already there,
and the jets that hover like wasps
at everybody's picnic.
We make sandwiches
sit at tables in our yards
while the planes circle overhead,
keep our weapons
strapped to our hips, where no one
can fail to see them.
The rain falls
like liquid artillery,
in someone else's yard
but holes cover your roof,
and your heart is a gun
that will never be large enough
for you to defend yourself.
and watch carefully as each stop arrives.
They swim away, oxygen tanks securely attached,
while new people enter the whale bus,
fold up their tanks like umbrellas, then
place them beside their feet in neatly folded piles,
careful not to make too much of a mess.
No one knows what the whale is thinking.
God-like, he floats near the surface,
trolley dangling underneath: his body
is the cable that holds the world together.
The passengers trust that he won't let go
and send them plummeting to the ocean floor,
and he doesn't disappoint-he even arrives early
to his final destination, and has a few extra minutes
for a smoke before he has to turn around
and start the journey all over again.
***
2. NORTHWEST SOMA
Medical cannabis storefronts
dot Sixth Avenue
like illuminated ships.
The sturdy doors are
embellished with
crudely painted green crosses
which offer relief
from chronic pain,
and neon signs flash
tantalizing messages, like
“six dollar grams”
and “purple kush special.”
Some of the blocks
have turf wars
between medical
and recreational marijuana,
and the two storefronts
sit beside each other
like opposing sports teams
waiting to compete
on the field of capitalism.
The state vows
to shut down
the medical cannabis outlets
because they don't pay taxes,
but the owners are shrewd
and get legal injunctions
so they can stay open
for a few more months.
On the corner of
Sixth and Proctor
one of the medical
cannabis employees
smirks and says to me
repeatedly, “Stay medicated!”
then gives me a free half-gram
to help with the process.
Meanwhile, in Texas,
people can still get life in prison
for marijuana brownies.
Guess I won't be moving there
any time soon.
It's worth putting up
with the rain.
***
3. REFUGEES
I hope this deluge of rain
will submerge my grief,
let it rise like steam
and disappear into the sky.
Outside my window,
drops turn into lakes
and roil with gusts of wind
from unknown sources.
We discuss the weather
as if our words
wielded absolute control,
could end the dull parade
of promises, the hammering
of idle vengeance.
I have no chance to feel
the personal, when the political
is the same storm, the same
drumbeat of water.
To even speak of it seems selfish,
like a dilettante checking her hair
in the mirror, while Paris burns.
The refugee and my sister
both at the butt of a gun,
everyone looking the other way
while the trigger is pulled.
Meanwhile, the pleas
for boots on the ground,
as if they weren't already there,
and the jets that hover like wasps
at everybody's picnic.
We make sandwiches
sit at tables in our yards
while the planes circle overhead,
keep our weapons
strapped to our hips, where no one
can fail to see them.
The rain falls
like liquid artillery,
in someone else's yard
but holes cover your roof,
and your heart is a gun
that will never be large enough
for you to defend yourself.
