Three Oakland Poems

by the Editorial Staff of Uncanny Valley Magazine

There Was Something I Just Thought Of (Sixth)

by Douglas Slayton

When it was late I'd stand under the lights

on the platform, waiting for the rattle

of the tracks, as the dark blue black of night

sinks my cover of yellow light crackle.

I miss the moon hanging over my bed,

when I had no where to be the next day.

I miss nights that were quiet in my head

and the bed wasn't mine but I could stay.

I wasn't scared of the streets I walked

knowing they'd be around in the morning.

I hate every night like the one we talked.

You're in my clothes, more with every washing.

I remember every night, they haunt me,

and how the last train was always empty.

Walk Home

by Chris Alarie

A shot sounds at a sideshow

And does not disrupt a thing

Danger is likely, life is lively

Catch a fade, go dumb, super hyphy

A crowd gathers at a warehouse

Tangle of noise & limbs & beer

Money for the touring bands, please

How strange that somebody lives here

Bobby & Huey

Huey & Officer Frey

Little Bobby Hutton

Huey & Tyrone Robinson

New Year's Eve, I walk home

From MacArthur BART, drunk

In the rain, the long way

Past Casper's Hot Dogs twice

Sick to my stomach of

Myself and everything

I buy some Gatorade

Watch The Simpsons 'til dawn

I live here, I am home

Is the bullet hole in the

Window of 'Lectric Washouse

Still there? I wonder, years later

Home

by Alexis Faulkner

Can take your heart at any time

Fashion it into a pretzel shield

And then squeeze all of the blood all over the shoes

Of your tribe

Oakland is a mess of palm trees

And basketball courts and friendly faces

Sometimes turned worried into that frantic well of loneliness and misdirection

It is the punks that press you back into shape

It is the hippies that make you know love

It is the lake that shows you dead catfish

Even the dying are happy to pass

At home

Ivy Drive

The stories I am missing show me that this was a young place

But parents shot at everything

Wrote it all down

My first memory, big shake and smashing the whole kitchen

My mom wrote it in October 1989

Garfield Avenue

The one lemons were three lemons and everyone stopped by to hustle up the tree while my family wasn’t looking

I put my black cat in the swing and Uboo never gave me hell

And Giamocha lent his tail to every occasion

Plum wine, we said, as fruit rained down over the roof

Too many rotten on the concrete

Rottweilers, neighbors and our own kept us all over that hood

Busted hydrants for summer

Winter

Winter was homeless there

Winter has no place in Oakland

My baby sister

My baby bunk beds

My Easter Bunny

My salad of nasturtiums

My friends in Diamond Heights

The school of Redwood Heights

The hills of Grandma lavender and her chemistry

Ever July planning on planting more bushes

A new millennium on Vernon Street

Junk

We had a lot of junk but I kept our books in the best order of the English alphabet And just stuffed the rest in the closet

There was a black cat there too who was sweet with luck

But less than the magic one

BART and the 57 kept late nights up later and long walks up that sunnyslope never felt less than Everest

I haven’t the best habits about keeping memories

Locked in order

I haven’t the best record of where

Shattuck Avenue

The concrete that touched my house touched a cherry plum tree and it broke apart

And threw me off my bike

Gave me the feeling that Oakland would never change

The city would flood and drain with fresh thousands and the streets

Would always be unpaved

This place was right near Ashby

The house had not only been for me

Psychedelic leave-behinds, sharpie skinhead cartoons, tchotchkes generations old

Every crusty creeper in Berkeley left vibes on Shattuck

Shattuck Avenue was a double exposure of holding hands

And spinning as hard as the wind ever blows

Overtop small shadows of dark leaves and flowers

Precious and brilliant and wanting a harder party and never looking back

In the end, we got robbed and I moved back to San Francisco

The best July was the roof on Alcatraz Avenue

First holiday stop: Berkeley Roses

But the view was no good and I’m glad we went back to base

The television volume broke my patience a thousand times over

But this time drowned completely by a campaign of flames

I loved every minute of that dangerous display

I wish memories were something final

I wish memories were easy to keep filed in your brain

And they were an exact representation of a time and place

But mostly they are shifting

Mostly they suit my best fantasy about my own life

All I want to remember

All I can remember

I remember being friends and being in Love with Oakland

Alexis Faulkner is Executive Editor-in-Chief of Uncanny Valley Magazine. 
Chris Alarie is Senior Editor-in-Chief of Uncanny Valley Magazine.
Doug Slayton is Professor Editor-in-Chief of Uncanny Valley Magazine.