we tried to ford the la river. biked through its trenches and wondered if its waters would melt our limbs off, not knowing that just miles upstream, the homeless were living, and the others were fishing. though freshwater from waste treatment, we failed to cross it.
now Chinatown overflow ebbs and flows a rich new green.
one month trial run says: boyle heights. a no furniture cave; a blank slate of soul. i am the sole Asian for miles. and when they drop me home, they point at the high gate fences, non-gentrification, and dogs barking; their nervous anxiety their sign of what’s coming.
i cross endless bridges into new age compounds, wander flame-ready hilltops, and step through these old streets alone. walk faster as dogs nip my heels. they bite me, but I can still fall in love.
home: so many formulations and configurations. familiar faces from deep down in the deep. neighbors from circles form circles around your radius.
sisterhood. brotherhood. sex. liberation. 2pac pulls me for years, but I find bookends back in Kendrick. Compton in my head, just the same; just another Californian — and we roll the iching like craps.