11 February 2008 | Vol. 7, No. 4

For Michaela, who can't stand work anymore

by CHRISTIEN GHOLSON

In the boutique grocery store there's talk

of "the California Coast." We haven't been any-

where in so long. It must be our own fault

we haven't manifested our destiny, cracked open

that money-chakra, realized our full potential. Maybe

Coyote is the problem. You once said

Be lean like Coyote. He must have overheard.

Then everything went wrong: Rent, debt; one step

forward, two steps back. Or maybe everything went

right according to plan. We are learning to serve.

Happy, happy. The lesson ends

when you die. I'm not bitter, I'm here

because of a blown tire.

The only store in walking distance

is the one for the rich. So many aisles; bright

and convenient as Dinner-Nirvana: Tofu

from Iowa, rice from California, cherries

from Chile. Everything fresh-

frozen in plastic. I can feel The Invisible-Hand-

of-the-Market reaching into my pants. What holds

this building up? Who mined the copper, poured

the concrete? Who picked the peppers? Who (or what)

decided on the price of this cheese? A cheap

tire costs less than one week's grocery run? Everything

stolen from something or someone.

It hasn't rained in so long, walking here I mistook

wind for water. I dream of standing under twisted elms,

or in strange doorways, listening to water gush down

empty streets in a language I cannot speak.

It's time to steal our life back. It's time

to turn our bed into a riverbank den; rodent bones

                              strewn across the sheets.