I come from an impoverish area in Fresno, California. Police sirens are practically my lullaby and helicopter light beams, my nightlight.
Fresno on my Mind
After William Blake’s “London”
The Fourth of July has arrived
With the bang, the crackle and pop.
The sirens echo in his mind
When he sees the body drop.
His Queen wipes the blood from his shin;
His Princess wipes the tear from hers.
The hiding game begins again.
He is hidden among beggars.
Fallen men stare at starless sky.
Fallen men walk down broken roads.
The mice becomes his alibi.
They paint the walls with broken codes.
The distorted shapes on the wall
Reveals the whispers of the knight.
Behind the bars, he’ll lose it all,
In the fortress of fine graphite,