Untitled

April 20, 2017

Delivered at TentCity protest outpost against gentrification at Turner Field, Atlanta, April 2017.

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Search the pockets of your jeans

And find the phrases, monuments and faces

Of men who said “Liberty”, but its meaning

They did not understand. European races,

Men,  had property. But it was the basis

Of the country, this idea of Liberty.

Autonomy. Come to public spaces;

Know you needs, govern your community.

And choose your way of life. Make your living.

Your hands, ideas, your money are the promise

You can make yourselves, form your own identity.

The people will envision their own progress.

But look down Windsor Street and tell me,

What does freedom mean if you don’t own your city?

Commuter

May 25, 2016

I.
A flock of birds
single-mindedly
alighting a wire,
watching the scene.

Tunnel vision:
iterated actions
are internalized.

At this moment,
incidentally,
my chosen ends
cast me among you
incentivized pedestrians
doing as one does,
following the sidewalk.

In my suit jacket
I fancy myself a crow
transcending the streets.

But as long as this brain
strides on two legs,
I’ll take the same crosswalk
across Jingmao 2nd,
turning left on Nangang.

II.
Autonomy:
hailing a taxi
to take me away
and secure solitude.

Distanced by glass and steel
from the comings and goings
of a restless world.

Rhythmic lamplight
projected like film
into the dark recesses
of this inner space.

Passing from place to place,
unceasing thought
traverses the highways.
This city itself is my mind.

Memories replayed,
I see the skyline, emerged
from the organic.

A vesicle
that peers from a distance
into the interiors
of darkened high rises,

III.
pulsating transit carries me
back to my neighborhood,
maintaining homeostasis–

where I’ll get noodles,
walk five flights,
and lie on the back porch
next to the open window

dreaming of headlights
trailing the boulevards,
neighborhoods blossoming,
veins extending,
curbs encrusting–

dreaming of the decades,
countless decades,
we will metastasize.