I just have a new poem to share today.

The Hope Mission

The Hope Mission block was closed off this morning.
Like in E.T., the City’s Alien Task Force was at work—
white trucks, white vans, awkwardly invulnerable hazmat suits,
flashing yellow lights and exhaust in the freezing air.
Now all the tents are gone. The street is clean.

My brother watches a security guard calmly take a knife
from a man raving on a busy street in Guangzhou
and plunge it into his heart. Three hearts and many minds,
despite no visible reaction from the unanxious street.

Mau suggests we visit the farmer’s market near me,
as we awkwardly look for ways to help each other,
my broken leg a proxy for his unquiet mind, blown up
by the poison and fire of a typical oilfield B2B
and the face of his brother, cartel debt-executed.

Claire texts she is leaving the hospital. She says,
They put me in the Mental Ward. Partially paralyzed
temporarily while driving on the Henday, EMTs ignored
the disease we share and decided it was a panic attack
until she hinted anorexia and her bloodwork came back.

“You may have damaged your heart,” a doctor scolded her
while ordering more tests.