Maison indépendante




Georgia Erwin |



Oakland looks like

your face

fried chicken residue and handmade soap, full of

a well-polished purposelessness

and a sense of to-do,

a sense that nobody wins

not even the Giants,

who are not even a football team

and not even from Oakland

and whose stadium fills with

gases of digesting garlic

that seep from mouth to fourth wall

and over the attendant yachts to

perfume the bird-like movie aliens

just doing their job

and from there

down to the Audio Row Y

where the average trajectory recycles

on a rotating strip of rubber

in a space half-remembered

like a ghost limb of purposes past

like a whim, a caprice,

like a paper container full of

french fries




canola oil

and your fingers are all up in my fancy, but let’s overlook these

minor incidents

this unappetizing lapse in self-awareness,

I mean,

in the end it won’t matter if your fingers are greasy and full of my fries,

or if the Giants win,

or if Teddy comes home to someone’s grandma

shot on his front stoop (the community vibe evaporates)

or if you are a recycle of the other Teddy,

the one who does it like a rabbit in a straightjacket

or if that Teddy is a recycle of another

strange victory

strange defeat, because

clinging garlic stink, so what, the

world keeps on spinning

and sometimes the Giants and I

bring our A game.