What’s there to do in Fremont?
What’s there to do in Fremont?
A queen’s mattress rests against
the cracked, white wall—the word
BANKSY spray-painted in black.
Next to it, our flag hangs
Totoro is waiting in the rain
on the opposite side, watching,
projecting light for the forty heads
thrashing around to the sound-numbing
politics of impressive Marshall and
Ampeg stacks in a forty-foot container.
As the dull ring grows and grows,
a small blonde centers herself
in the room, crooning
This masquerade is getting older
before twirling in a circle and
stripping off her white halter dress
for a black skirt and red flannel then
rasping In the sun—I’m married. Buried
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
the icy wind drones outside, rustling
the wheat field that surrounds us.
Only one road leads us back home
from this box, but I think
this mattress and that flag and
her red flannel know more about home
than my own hands.
A queen’s mattress rests against
the cracked, white wall—the word
BANKSY spray-painted in black.
Next to it, our flag hangs
half-heartedly among file boxes
filled with blankets and zines.
Totoro is waiting in the rain
on the opposite side, watching,
projecting light for the forty heads
thrashing around to the sound-numbing
politics of impressive Marshall and
Ampeg stacks in a forty-foot container.
As the dull ring grows and grows,
a small blonde centers herself
in the room, crooning
This masquerade is getting older
before twirling in a circle and
stripping off her white halter dress
for a black skirt and red flannel then
rasping In the sun—I’m married. Buried
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
the icy wind drones outside, rustling
the wheat field that surrounds us.
Only one road leads us back home
from this box, but I think
this mattress and that flag and
her red flannel know more about home
than my own hands.