Scott, Supervisor of the Dispossessed

for Scott Wiener, San Francisco Supervisor, District 8

I know this cityits namesake friarthe mystic who bled, Scott

800 years beforeall this cement& scaffolding

we know the birdsin his namethe visions

what to dowith this historythis minority

who nowdoes the city claimas progeny

the longhaired boysmelling of patchoulihis hemp spread out

Nick the Wiccanin an open relationshiphis desiderata of dick

pregnant Alexandraher architect husbandeyes tortoise shelled like Johnson

she teaches private schoolso they can afforda child they can afford

Jonathan fangedwith defiancemonitoring the news for intolerance

then shaming the fuckerson his soma blogJack in North Beach

who stopped giving a shitin the 80s but writeslove poems nonetheless

Anand who is trans& hasn’t spoken to me sinceI told him I had no idea

then I asked questionsbecause I don’t know the thingsI should know in solidarity

let me be in solidaritybut he doesn’t respond& made me feel white

Khalil who is warm water & speaksin longhandwho stopped the 36 bus in blackface

rabid     he came west tooeyes closed above his wetguitar

he tells me to stayif only to crescendointo an angrier shade

of blackof deviant homosexualrivering my need

back to churchnot with steeple or benedictionbut with a flock desperate

as I claim I amso far westfrom the south

situated among the acronyms& tolerancefor ambiguity

I understand all that& this:I’m among the terrified

I resemble a frightening thingcentralin your family lore

of whatyou can trustto threaten & tarnish

& how I wish to hurtthose who should knowbetter

the source is the same, Scottextols itself into an accelerantfor a many-winged fire

& can you say it with methe sourceis the same

this city of exile isn’t alwaysa city of refugeno

I burn herelike I didthere

used to make me crynow I can’t cryor scream

there’s nowhere to golike I ambeholden still to elders

I’m a singer of spiritualsbut no longer a believerno longer captive

to the WordI’ve made flesha manner of reconciliation

Church won’t have meas a tithera sinner saved

& Katrina is a markerof when my family was unmooredpancreatic cancer seizing Aunt Trina

& my love of mencan’t eclipsemy chroma

what wronghave I doneto you, Scott, to me

to my broad-backed kinthe nameless menwith my nose & whimper

whatever I say herefor the literate & enlightenedhas been translated

from the gut& groomedI’m screaming

walking unburiedin this city of boutiques& acrylics

of Divisadero& the sainted indignitiesof the poor

I want to call youbrother comradeshit stirrer

I want you to call mesomething civilizedvex the segregationists

with your trust & toneyour reckless racedrisk

I want to bepost-racedblack haired brown eyed

in thisthe inaugural yearof adulthood

I’m 40 & potbelliedfrowning regretfulindignant with bad service

call me Mr. Simmonds or sirnot Kevinnever dude

there’s a poverty of mannerswherever I go there’sme to contend with

& have you any ideathe demands I makethe seals

I think should gounbroken just becausethey exist

I’m not curious enoughto be an intellectualbut not unquestioning enough

to remain unawareof my stationpedigreed like my shut-in mother

who always makes itinto my writing but nevera note of her in my music

unless it’s to be playedby cellothen it’s her without question

emptyingher psychotic bravuraarpeggiating heat

prudence haunts this cityits prison island a mirrorits wages a purgatory

I can’t afford the viewbeyond the fogthe unruly eucalyptus in Presidio

what to do with this vendettawhen I...