Trip

Dalai Lama was a woman,

she danced uplifting swirling waves that threatened my presence.

She was a menace to me by asking “what can you perform a miracle”.

So I went on to a marathon on Pennsylvania highway,

with a thousand more liberal vegans who shopped at Erewhon.

As they ran off into the Atlantic,

I fell into New York City, I knew I was into the wrong neighborhood.

A legacy black barbeque and steak place, or two if you count the next street,

that spelled steak as stonk.

Unfriendly teenagers as they all seem to be.

I was being chased by my own fear into any next neighborhood,

this defensive self-aware asian wandered without knowing the next.

Soon, after two blocks of hanging shattered flags and low brick houses,

I stumbled into a white neighborhood that I knew wasn’t black,

a dead macaque had his head hanged,

and malnourished teen girl playing violin behind the smog of an empty lane.