There is no there,

There in Fresno.


Just fallen sheep dogs

and farm land that has since buckled under

tract homes.


The moon floats in water sky

surface, pale-silver,


stars as tadpoles

in August              when the children

swim with plastic buckets, mouths open ready.


There is no there,

there in Fresno,


The Tower District

escape the ordinary.


Street light signifiers

cocaine killed Ross in May

I make the journey through Pacheco Pass,

from Monterey in a Toyota Celica GT-S.           I only cried a little.


The fog came down across the car,

as we sank deep into the valley’s stale air. Once you

are there, there is no coming up for air. The gray suffocates.


There is no there,

there in Fresno,


2001 Blackstone Ave.

bullets came from blackened windows

                                    body bags lined the streets.

The first body I saw

I was driving a truck to the Fresno Fair.

                          I didn’t have my license.


                                                              A cop covers

                                                              the body with white tapestry.

                                                              A Turkey Vulture ghostly above the scene.




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