Sunday Poem

Money Shot Through the Crane Glass Floor

The windows of Urban Outfiters were smashed

after Hova’s song about New York came on
the skateboard drive PA.

Nobody looted a thing.
(A few months later
hella goodbye Oakland Foot Locker.)

The crowd’s fissiparous dissolution came

as it neared the clock tower
and we wound up at the Red Room.
Liv was pissed. I don’t remember anyone
saying, “When the jewelry place
went down our Justice song was on.”

We had numbers. The homie Pat broke

up some fights. Don was there.

Homie’d been quoted in the Times.
Bonnano (in a cheap suit), Maya,
and I walked together, hurried (better),

as the black flag went up over the action.

Jo told me she didn’t want to get arrested.
When the bouncers at Motiv dragged Sam down,
a masked groupuscule freed him up.

Back at the neon red debrief nobody said much.
“We crossed this Burmese river” or,

“The Punjab is a land with five rivers.”

I drank from a glass of beer and remembered
the Alexander Kluge VHS

The Eiffel Tower, King Kong, and the White Woman.
The wind was blowing down trees
At the port of Long Beach,
a Mitsubishi crane un-stacked
a glow-blue sheet of wind.
I’ve been rolling around with a bunch of Fleetwood Macks.
We are the crisis.


by David Lau
from Armed Cell 1
August 2011