“We all think green around here
We can’t afford the rent
Is this town fairing under pressure
Or is it sinking faster?
A standard existing box-materialized-to the perfect degree,
As masses meditate on buzzed blank faces
I sew patches of home into the hem of my collar to show off to the big town slicks singing up a frenzied fit.
The friends I keep play with axes and hard substance.
I’m so sick of everyone’s end user agreements.
Abuser of technology refusing all who cant live without it.
We live like savages
Bracing bay area winds
A band of crickets
In the living room kicking it
singing out for the lizard court king.
Silent for the feast
Everyone is beautiful through the eyes of a beast, a needle,
through seven sickly sins
See me through a lens
A matter of social habit.
Stop talking with my hands while im at it.”—Derek Avila
“Art, be it poetry, music, sculpture, puppetry—the whole of it, inspires change on a personal level rather than a global one. This is important because the individual is the whole. The creation of art argues that people are connected, ideas are connected, the past and future are connected by this moment. Meanwhile, exploitation of the poor, drone strikes that kill hundreds of children, slavery, genocide, land theft—these are all acts that depend upon convincing large groups of usually well-meaning people that “they are not us.” Dean Young once said, “The highest accomplishment of the human consciousness is the imagination, and the highest accomplishment of the imagination is empathy.” Poetry, along with every other art, is a tool for teaching and expanding empathy. Violence and injustice cannot endure empathy.”—
On the way home after an exhausting day, I am confronted with a crowded MUNI subway car. This may sound familiar.
The car quickly fills with a flock of SF State students. I am the only male in the compartment. I am quiet and listening to my headphones, reflecting on the day per usual.
I notice myself getting a lot of looks, and remain passive and unamused while glancing and laughter in the car increased.
It went so far as prior getting off at the school, I believe the girl sitting next to me took an unwanted photograph of me.
Recognizing this is what women go through constantly and avoid social scenarios depending sometimes on potential threat/predatorial behavior alone, I cant really get behind my own shame and embarrasment in this occurance.
Incase it has ever been questioned,
You have rights to all the space your body exists in.
Especially on trains and subway cars.
A common dating site’s algorithm generates multi-acceptable
Questions answering to who exactly,
When context of the question asks if you- presented in scenario crowded subway car- would you believe it acceptable to grope an attractive stranger, circumstances dictating that person w ould never know it was you.
I hope I never fail to see how this is not a multiple-acceptably answered question.
Never see blatant predatorial assault as anything but true ugly damaged aggressions it leaves on people.
We live and die in this vessel called body.
Captain it fiercly.
Inside my head is a pickit fence with VIP’s ontop and sharks in the lobby.
Always so pressed to act and approve
A matter of unimpressive fact.
That’s the kind of attitude I live to reject.
There is a man on Market
With a brass flute for calling
A body in subway car flash
Emptied of all somebody’s tryna go home
Where we all wanna be.
This convenient theory of mine, when time is aligned right
A shift/A boost or a subjective truth.
We walking bumbling buzzing locusts
Maintaining black market options over making motions for reusing
producing a generation outta focus
They chose this for us.
The city folk bump around their town frowning while
Were all drowning
Come on inside and we can drink with the shades drawn.
Humans have no tails to crop.
Face wise-ass grins
With wisdom teeth plucked out.
My friends look like mis-raised pit puppies
Cheeks scarred marks for the wounded
Nowhere to go on holidays and
Everything is closed
but train station destinations for the taking with ice cold animal bones.
These misbegotten tones ringing in the ears of the awaken.