The political anarchy of capitalism has always had people
running for their lives from one county to another.
Black, brown, yellow, and something in between people,
run past me along the Bay in a frenzy of wanting to be winners.
Old Sombreros in a new country blare Mariachi trumpets
on their Iphones.
I see Latina-looking bouncing boobs, and sweet-talking foreigners
on MATCH dates out for a run, parading down over bayside trails.
Even those who don’t speak English, monitor their Fitbits.
Blown-about wrappers of fast food circle in the wind.
Mothers weep for joy clinging to laughing kids and warn them:
There’s Alcatraz— stay away, a muy mal place. Rotund mommos
struggle on bikes that can barely hold them. Brash white guys race
ahead in a rude velocity— barking, get out of my way.
I notice a small hatchet stowed on the side of one bike.
Braced for an attack while peeing in a public toilet,
I look over my shoulder to see who might want to harm me.
Why am I worrying about?—meeting up with a grandson
of one of the 2800 Kamikze pilots?