there’s nothing in this place
come on let’s get out of this place
my roof is so low to the ground
when i yell for you to help me
the sound eats its own face
under the lace of a tapestry
that hides all the mold on the walls
looking with grinning eyes
back at my mom’s appalled
mad hatter anger and i cover
my face so i don’t see their eyes
let’s live again in the shed
where all that fit were mom’s sofa
and my bed nailed to the wall
do you remember early mornings
with hot water mom warning me
to wait before eating the instant
oatmeal we ate every day
scraping the one bowl clean
with that one spoon feeling cold
not so much as mom’s who’s getting old
but warming from inside out is nice
i ate the same on the trains
they give you hot water for free
so when i wasn’t too drunk or high
for hunger i would wander through
through those aisles where everyone
tries hard not to look at each other
and i try to look at all of them
and as the sun sets outside
i watch the red rocks and scoop out
stolen instant coffee and oat packets
and put myself to sleep on the familiar
kind of morning homestyle dinner
bus stop is also kind to me
it’s been getting colder outside
don’t got any food until the train ride
smoke a joint just to get something warm
inside myself feel the creeping numb
and empathy for the man asleep
on the bench next to me i hope
he’s not dead no it’s all in my head
he waved goodbye i’ll miss him
as i walk back to my seat
all the amish people are dressed neat
and sit up straight and i wonder if
they are looking at my pink hair
but i’m not lucid enough to know
just the child of this train letting
it carry me cold and asleep across
kansas to meet people i love and
people i don’t know in sweet california
come on let’s get out of california
let’s live under new york in the subway
for 2.75 you can get enough money
for a meal maybe something to drink
maybe a conversation maybe just your
own voice carrying you to grand central
maybe you let yourself get lost in train
sounds maybe it feels good to get lost
we should love this cave painting
graffitti on the walls of my subway
boxy puzzle cave puzzling my way
back home until my phone dies
and i just let the music take me away
and take me down aisles of food and
drink i take only what i need
and i see everyone needing more
and i get cold and go to the train
come on let’s get out of new york
come on let’s get out of chicago
and new orleans and santa fe and
san diego and i’m crushing grapes
into slowly turning juice of wine i
wonder what happens if i breathe
in all this carbon dioxide will i
fall into the bin of grapes and ferment
too here in the santa cruz mountains
i count to ten and i’m not dead
so i’ll go help with the harvest instead
come on let’s stand on this vineyard
on the side of the mountain halfway
between dust and muscle not
knowing but listening to you tell
stories about foraging for magic mushrooms
in washington where i came from
when my work is done we just sit
on the truck bed eat grapes
and tell our stories to each other
and then we get out of this place
—October 2021, Santa Cruz, CA
