WEBVTT

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"Still life of Central Valley
with riverbed and hypodermic

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needle.

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Under the bridge, a city of
blue tarps ripples like a child.

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Imagine water.

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The snow flutters down
like dove feathers.

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Burned moths coats
their azure waves

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like sea foam, a
perfect pastoral.

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I'm sorry.

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This is a lie.

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It never snows here, but the
image is so much prettier if I

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don't say 'ash.'

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Don't mention the
plastic bags filled

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with chemicals of flakes.

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No matter how I cut
this story, there's

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always powder gathered off
white at the hem of a mountain.

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No matter which version
I choose to tell you,

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this image can still kill me.

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Late fall, the
foothills are ablaze,

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and each river is
wedding dressed in steam.

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But under every
bridge in this city,

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the winter arrived years ago.

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It's never left.

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Here, the distance between
a sleeping bag and body bag

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reduces down to just
temperature and chemistry.

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I won't tell you about the
nights spent there buying,

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selling, half sleeping, while
a cement heaven bent above me

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under the weight of
passing headlights

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illuminating a field
fluorescent bottles.

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Syringes, like
stretched out stars.

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Down here, each
depressed plunger

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is a broken, damned,
empty concept of a home,

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a man made flood.

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Beneath the skin,
Blue has is twist,

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a needle plunged beneath the
surface spills synthetic joy.

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Pond of ripples, frozen midway.

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All the fish choke on the
sudden heavy of their gills.

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Pollution, a sharp glint
hooked in the throat.

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The river is brittle
and collapsed.

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Lips, cracked and
needle, blissed, a friend

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sleeps in the arroyo's ash
flecked dust and will not wake.

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Fresno River, an open grave.

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I've only seen this
river flow three times.

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A sudden mud gray thunder,
the color of rats after rain,

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it spilled from every
gutter, drenched lawns,

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flooded streets, and returned
each sacrifice we had given.

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Cloths, gathering, an
exodus back to the heart.

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Car tyres, green tipped
syringes, pocket change,

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condom wrappers, bullet
casings, rusted bike chains,

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and snapped
skateboards, a family,

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dog's bones wrapped in
so much white plastic.

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You could almost mistake
them for a child's ghost."

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