what do we call home (draft 1)

The screaming ambulance passes

mother and child at the crosswalk.

Our neighbor stands in his driveway

bathed in gray sun. The illuminated lemon

tree waits quietly for the children wearing

backpacks on a school day.

Cars wait impatiently for them to pass.

A police cruiser stalks its prey

near the dreary liquor store across

the street from the dirty motel.

The congested high-rise freeway

looms near the intersection of life.

The abandoned hospital is now

a movie set. The film crew loiters

on the street as the nearby church

of our faith remains unchanged.

Apartments surround the aging diner

while the corpse of the mall decays

into slow ruin. Jets and private planes

fly back and forth like rock doves.

Self-Portrait as Hawthorne (draft 3)

This heaven gives me migraine - Gang of Four

Helicopter blades whir and cut the air
over the city of good neighbors. The mall
sits empty between the catholic church
and the police station. The suspect is on
foot through the neighborhood.

Kids at the library after school, the computer
at home doesn't work. Cops station themselves
by the high school every day after class.
"Be true to your school," was written in
a different time, a different world.

Discount stores choke the boulevard
where families flocked to after Sunday
services. A plane takes off from the runway
of the municipal airport. It gains altitude,
flies over the city and towards the sea.

Self-Portrait as Hawthorne (draft 2)

                        This heaven gives me migraine.

                                                - Gang of Four

           

            Faint sounds of bygone summers

            linger through suburban avenues. Hotrods

            cruised on Friday nights full of kids

            looking for something to do. Football games,

            dances & hamburger stands would often suffice.

            Brian found his voice here. Marilyn,

            another starstruck girl in the city light’s

            shadow, was called Norma then.

            Memory, a misty mizzle, evaporating

            under the warmth of the sun.

            Discount stores choke the boulevard

            where families flocked to after Sunday

            services. A plane takes off from the runway

            of the municipal airport. It gains altitude,

            flies over the city and towards the sea.

            

Self-Portrait as Hawthorne

                         This heaven gives me migraine.

                                                - Gang of Four

           

            Faint sounds of bygone summers linger

            Through suburban avenues. Hotrods cruised

            On Friday nights full of kids looking for

            Something to do. Football games, dances &

            Hamburger stands would often suffice.

            Brian found his voice here. Marilyn was

            Another star struck girl in the shadow of

            City lights. They called her Norma then.

            Memory becomes a misty mizzle evaporating

            Under the warmth of the sun.

            At 3701 W. 119^th Street a young boy choked

            Back tears as he stared into the scarred

            Socket where his father’s eye had been.

            He could never let his sons forget

            The sacrifice he made.