a holiday every day
this corner of our Gotham
we pray it to stay
unhip
a little longer
where the news
is churned by machine
and stacked wet on trucks
to stain fingers
and shape minds
where motorcycles hide
stacked between trailers
and a cacophony of cars
the salty perfume of the bay
filled with planes and prisoners
and left behind
to bode adventure
is the lonely highway side
far from the tudor homes
the chaos Korean 2 a.m. barbecue
living in the sweet rush
of passing cars
everyone hurtling
toward some odd piece
of their dreams
