Poetry? Seriously, how gay am I? Gay as Gay Ray.

My aunt says that lesbians drive Subaru's. My car isn't a Subaru but everyone always mistakes it for one... Story of my life. Anway, here is a stupid poem I wrote about Yreka because I was feeling especially Yrekan today.

The Mean Streets of Y-Town

In the alley behind Third Street,
Where the crass orange oriental poppies grow fast
Like the milk-fed farm girls
(It's the hormones, I heard),
I watched my sister shit her spandex running pants
(do NOT tell her I told you so).

On Miner Street I staked a claim
Not for gold,
I’m not a greenhorn or fool,
Just a middle school kid
Walking home from Jackson Street to Oregon Street,
Taking the long way home,
Turning onto Miner
To score some free candy
From a guy the kids called Gay Ray.

Up Mt. Butcher Hill
My dad and sister and I planted bulbs.
One time I painted the fence white
In front of the Chinese cemetery

I never saw a llama on Yama but I always thought I might.

In this High Desert Siskiyou County City
We used to play under the streets when the creek went dry
We'd find beer cans, broken glass, used needles and underpants
(And one time, ka-ching, porn).

When the lake
(Greenhorn isn't a lake, it's a reservoir)
Dried up for so long
(I heard it drained into an old mine shaft and backed up into the CHP office, Ha! Do pigs swim?)
We could walk across it and feel like we were in the Gobi
Or Death Valley.
We could crawl on our bellies over the cracked ground and plead for "agua... agua...."
When we were kids, people who died in the desert spoke Spanish.

On Third Street I ran into a parked car
On my blue bike
Because I wasn't paying attention
Except to the oil spots on the road
That I needed to avoid with my front tire like cracks on the sidewalk,
But it was only three stitches.

On Gold Street, a lady bug flew in my ear and stuck, still flapping, on my eardrum.
No stitches, a lot of screaming,
A visit to Siskiyou General Hospital,
A Very long pair of tweezers,
A lot of water (to drown the poor thing)
And don't ever touch my ears or I'll hit you.

For Poetry, find a cowboy.

For Culture, find Sleazy Pierre (he's usually slinking around the Yreka Motel on North Main with beret, unless he died).

For Fine art, find the water tower.

For bread, tough luck. There is no Yreka Bakery, neither backward nor forward.