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

                                                               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.