Behind the house where I was raised there’s a concrete bunker sprinkled in an industrial mosaic of tacky 1970’s living room gravel furnishing.
I watched my brothers on the roof jumping spigots and water mains with invisible alien dressage horses until Erick turned on the forcefield causing Kandy to trip and fall. We were up in arms and armed ourselves with lava bombs and light sabers. Erick couldn’t breath, we ran and cried and tears led grown ups galloping down the hill to save him.
A quarter mile west of the street where I was raised there’s an open field (dry grass in may,mud in january) nudged between the ox-bow of an inner city creek and a grove of oily eucalyptus trees.
We did cartwheels through the grass clippings while the children prayed. At lunch our knees were dirty but theres were godly and I stared at the mud stains in there tan uniform khakis and wondered what god saw in the chloroplast smears that stained their legs that he didn’t see in mine.
Two towns east of the place where I was born there’s a corner store across the street from a liquor store though they both sell cigarettes and lotto tickets, and liquor.
My dream car fumed and paced black circles into the AME asphalt. Inward acceleration stressed the hinges (made in Japan, assembled in Fremont) and our dark locks flowed through roils of white smoke. Someone on that block, behind drawn curtains and prison bars, phoned for help but no one came.
Two days south of the state where I was made there’s five brick rooms with sunken pine floors and palmetto skeletons piled under the boards.
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