We sink into the dust，

    Baba and me，

    Beneath brush of prickly leaves；

    Ivy strangling trees——singing

    Our last rites of locura.

    Homeboys. Worshipping God-fumes

    Out of spray cans.

    Our backs press up against

    A corrugated steel fence

    Along the dried banks

    Of a concrete river.

    Spray-painted outpourings

    On walls offer a chaos

    Of color for the eyes.

    Home for now. Hidden in weeds.

    Furnished with stained mattresses

    And plastic milk crates.

    Wood planks thrust into

    thick branches

    serve as roof.

    The door is a torn cloth curtain

    （knock before entering）。

    Home for now， sandwiched

    In between the maddening days.

    We aim spray into paper bags.

    Suckle them. Take deep breaths.

    An echo of steel-sounds grates the sky.

    Home for now. Along an urban-spawned

    Stream of muck， we gargle in

    The technicolor synthesized madness.

    This river， this concrete river，

    Becomes a steaming， bubbling

    Snake of water， pouring over

    Nightmares of wakefulness；

    Pouring out a rush of birds；

    A flow of clear liquid

    On a cloudless day.

    Not like the black oil stains we lie in，

    Not like the factory air engulfing us；

    Not this plastic death in a can.

    Sun rays dance on the surface.

    Gray fish fidget below the sheen.

    And us looking like Huckleberry Finns/

    Tom Sawyers， with stick fishing poles，

    As dew drips off low branches

    As if it were earth's breast milk.

    Oh， we should be novas of our born days.

    We should be scraping wet dirt

    with callused toes.

    We should be flowering petals

    playing ball.

    Soon water/fish/dew wane into