Oakland, CA. corner of High St & macArthur Blvd
This world moves past me—cars, people, news of the day–
As a world moves within me, faith beyond my eyes.
People live, so to speak, on the streets of this city
In which I try living. If people’s concerns get stirred,
As this sista sits alert yet cool on the side of the road,
I don’t hear them; I see her gracile hands. This day
Distends a world within me, faith beyond my eyes.
She eats patiently from her hand, but her load-
Bearing stare catches me, and all my and this city’s lies
Get exposed, as she sits on the side of the road,
Her eyes lift, iridescent as they squint to say,
I see more than the stories about me you’ve been told.
Still, worlds move past me—the cars, the people, the day—
And little more than talk and whispers and pity
Pass between us. Our gaze locks. Our dimensions exposed.
Some say this is what’s wrong with the streets of this city,
But Mr. Cullen said it best: “She is nearer than the word
Wasted on her now,” So what, yeah, one of her titties,
Hangs exposed, and people’s concerns get stirred
By a blouse caught in a breeze, but she gives less fucks
Than Etheridge Knight. Let’s say, forget what you heard.
I don’t hear them; I see her gracile hands. This day.
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