Sweet John Ree

Sweet John Ree tugged at his collar, where its well starched curve had begun to chafe against the stubbly pores of his neck.  He gulped instinctively, filling his lungs with air while his fingers held that stiff shirt collar out, away, off his throat for a moment.  Then he let the collar go, let it squeeze him up again, and tightened his tie.  Surely the knot had been loosened by his momentary twitch, his tugging fingers, his gulping breath.

The curb at Montana is a peak on the brink

Thin air off the hill colliding with the thick swift fumes of the highway

The last southern block of the Dimond looking out at the northmost end of the Fruitvale

Across the curving gulley; 580 as it winds from the shore of the lake

Towards the high edge of the flatlands.

My Oakland (Quick Write) (Edited)

My Oakland is incomprehensible outside the city lines, not because of some insular insanity like the surreal kookiness of Berkeley, or the shabby sterility of Emeryville.  My Oakland only makes sense within its own borders because of particularity, not peculiarity. (Quick write at the start of the Living Oakland workshop I’m taking through the Oakland Library)