City of St. Francis

The jowls of elders quiver in their livid


Someone spat on the feet of

St. Francis

Quite a feat

One foot in front of the other

Walking into a telephone pole

Where wires are crossed in its

Ambition of a crucifixion

(Or to reenact one)

Let’s not forget

This is the sale of the century

Where every scheme is anointed in

Holy bath water minus the halo

And the dreams of those off course

Are docked and rusted and the blood

Is tainted on a loose stool bolted

With everywhere and no place to go

And drinks are on the house

Only there’s no house

High blood pleasure and

Smelling salts to preserve

The highs and lows

Somebody tell St. Francis to get

His shit together

The bullet hole riddles

Are where time made its mark

I’ll light a candle for you

While I’m off the grid

Without a pot to rent in

And the sidewalks get a nice

Mop and glow spit shine job

My yoga mat is a parking ticket,

Or a citation for public intoxication

No angels to piss on

The flames

Just the edges

Of hymnals

Cutting into the prints

Of fingers cut off at

The joints and by the

Way they just legalized

The aroma of pot

And my bones are ready

To go underground

At any time

And someone spat on the

Feet of St. Francis


Don’t forget to leave

A tip



© 2018 Tony Robles


415 Day

There’s no other area code

For me to be

I ain’t got nothin’ against

The 650,707,831

But they ain’t got nothin’

On the 415

They say that age is just

A number but 415 ain’t

Just a number

Just go to the highest peak

In the city and yell out:  415!

And an echo will come back: ERRRRRRRAY!!!

(Followed by: Where you at?)

Now me, I’m 53 going on 415, and

My father is still alive, ex-gangster from

Fillmore and I got uncles that are in the

415 section of heaven which is

A Crocker Amazon in the sky

Where online purchases do not

Exist and congas provide rhythms and

Beats pulse through

The veins of leaves still

Thirsty for Frisco songs

It’s good to see you

Skin covered in 415 memories

Tongue that still tastes 415

Different varieties of everything

And the 415 fog sits in the

Lungs and we exhale our 415

Lives, just being ourselves

And the 415 grass grows under

Our feet

And some can’t feel that grass

But see it in their minds,

Especially when you been locked

Up 415 times, so many times

And so many 415 faces of all

Races and persuasions

You can’t have 415 without black and brown

And some in the 415 moved to other codes

Seeking out more neutral colors or

Because they couldn’t afford the rent

But you can’t hide the 415

With air freshener

Hair coloring


A new car

A new computer

Or a new old lady

‘cause you can’t wash the 415

Out of your skin

Coming together, the 415

On 415 day, which is

Every day

The 415 changes but

It’s still the 415

And some of us are scattered

Like Debra, one of the finest

Sisters I ever seen livin’

Down in Texas

One of the finest of the 415

And don’t forget Charlie Mack

Out in Sac and Jimmy in Honolulu

And Cousin Leslie in New Jersey

And there’s nothing I wouldn’t give

To hear my grandfather’s voice again

Dialing from a rotary 415 telephone

Whose number was: SKYLINE 1-3046

And speak into the receiver: How’s my boy?

And it’s the 415

Foe One five

Ex-foes coming together

In 415 love

The rain falling on our 415 skin

At Crocker Amazon Park


It can’t be

Washed out



© 2018 Tony Robles



Stuck in Reverse

Some are just stuck
In reverse as the
Tides go in either

Some are stuck
In an elevator
Going down no
Matter how much
They hit the “up”

Some have minds
Stuck to windows
Like snails stuck to
The sidewalk
The grassy blade

Some hit the wrong
Walk backwards
Are not on the
Same page because
The parchment leaves
Them parched

Some shift gears
Between the ears
Voices collecting in
The lobes like low
Hanging fruit devoured
By the jaws of chance

Some are
An incarnation
Rather than a

They are the
Obstruction in
The throat, the sleep
In the eyes, the fly
That landed on your

Some are just
At the wrong place
At the wrong time

Some are
Just stuck
In reverse

While the world
Goes the other way

© 2017 Tony Robles

A Different Kind of Cold Up in Here

That’s what the
Older black man
Said as we sat

Was cold

Even our

Another black
Man snored while

As if walking
A tight wire of a
Dream frozen

(or on water)

Waiting on a
Cold bench

It’s a different
Kind of cold up
In here

An old white
Man moaned
With a broken
Hip at the end
Of the bench

The cops beat
Me, I’m 64 years
Old, he said

We’re you
Drinking, old man?
Asked another guy

I don’t


And we sat in
Our orange

And the air in
Our lungs was

And there we
Were attempting
To warm ourselves

Man, I just turned
31 years old, a guy
Said while holding a
Bag of chopped carrots
That came in a plastic
Lunch sack

Happy birthday

“Now, maybe
You can use those
Carrots to make
You a carrot cake”


And I sat
On that
Cold bench

2 flies buzzing
Over my

It’s a different
Kind of cold
Up in

© 2016 Tony Robles

Frisco Graduation

Standing in line at an elementary school graduation I look at the colors surrounding me.  The cars rolling by with loud colors and the lyrics of lives lived or once lived blaring from car speakers announcing their presence while the sky above whispers in its ever present blue; trees that have stood for generations show their skin and limbs proudly like the survivors they are.  The others in line are mostly down home folk, Frisco natives or folks that have been in the city for generations, running in all directions, crossing streets, trying to make it before the light turns red, scurrying to get a place in line that is snaking the length of the street.  The parents and relatives arrive with stuffed animals and balloons to show their love for their kids and the achievement of education.  Pictures are taken and folks are excited and proud as the colorful balloons bobbing and hovering above their heads.

Women–mothers and grandmothers and aunties sprout up all over—all proud and full of smiles.  Some look like floats, big boned, big cheeked—outfitted in tight clothing that is like another skin, balancing on heels and shoes that glitter in the early evening.  Those mothers, whose lips are thick with sheen gleaned from the glint of sun that rests on the troubled faces of skillets, pots and pans; whose smear of kisses cover a child’s face and never comes out.  Those women whose bodies are filled with dreams and screams and laughter and tears and stories; those women waiting in line, waiting for their children to walk across that stage; those women whose voices hit the air and sing out, whose laughter cracks through the clouds and make the rain fall in every color.   With women like these, no rainbow is needed because the rainbow is wrapped around them and expands with their breath, laughter, dreams; giving birth to more breath, more laughter, more dreams.

I can’t help but look at the youngsters ready to graduate from Elementary school and wonder what pictures, poems and stories await them.  I see all the children, all colors and backgrounds and voices.  I think about my own elementary school graduation.  I was a skinny little boy who’d broken his leg in a car accident.  I was hobbling around on crutches.  I remember those days in the city but those days are like broken reflections shed from the skin of a mirror.  I see the generations pass by me, faster and faster, and I look at the trees lining the street in silent celebration.  I see little boys dressed like men, neckties, slacks, hair greased sideways and upward and forward.  The little boys run about and the little girls are dressed like their mothers.  And the kids are on the stage in caps and gowns.  And the kids have names like Tiburcio, Akil, Octavio, Fazon, Valeria, Maifa, Maricruz and other names that are poems waiting to be born and sung into the San Francisco air.

The theater is packed and the kids give speeches that speak of the struggle of their parents to raise them.  Some spoke of their immigrant families and told their stories in English and Spanish, their voices rising like trees into the expanding sky.  And as each child’s name was called to accept their graduation certificates, the mothers, uncles, grandparents, brothers and sisters released their own pent up dreams, rising from seats, not holding back.  In a chorus of affirming claps and declarations of pride and calling out of names that would be the envy of any church or arena, those parents and friends showed who they were—down home folks with booming voices and emotion that pour freely.  Their voices, their presence, their children are the meaning of San Francisco.  Their faces are the color of flowers that need to stay here.  Will these children be here, will they grow up here?  Or will they be evicted from the landscape in which they give color.  Will their faces be part of the mural that tells the story of our city or will there not be a place for murals anymore?

Dead Air

I. Testing testing one-two-three
There was a radio station at my
School and there was a booth
With a microphone and a DJ behind the
Glass and those buttons and switches
Lit like Xmas candy and melting butterflies
And I thought it was an aquarium of sound
And I remember my grandmother telling me
About a guy who said, “There’s a sucker born
Every minute” and I was in school and I
Couldn’t be a sucker and I’d watch the DJ
Talk into the mic behind that glass
As those candy lights glowed
And I thought, this must be real

II. Testing testing one-two-three
I got on that radio station after
Much testing about the history of radio
And basic audio production and the difference
Between amplitude modulation and frequency
Modulation and a potentiometer or “Pot” for
Short and I smoked no pot but the pots were
Round and they controlled the meter and the
Little needle that fluttered back and forth, trying
To stay out of the red, don’t over-modulate but
Don’t under-modulate either, watch the needle,
Always watch the needle

III. Testing testing one-two-three
First day on the air, I was given an
Airshift sometime in the afternoon and I sat
In the booth with two turntables, cart machines,
A microphone and all those candy colored buttons
And I sat in a chair that had wheels but there was
No safety belt and I proceeded to play a record at
The wrong speed and I forgot to sign my program
Log and I turned on the mic, all I had to say were
The station’s call letters: K-C-S-F
And I had rehearsed it hundreds of times, in my
Sleep, in the halls, in the toilet…four simple letters
And I took a deep breath as the candy colored
Lights held breath

IV. Testing testing one-two-three
Man, what the fuck was that? The
Lights asked. You got popcorn stuck
In your mouth? Can’t you talk? Can’t
You say four simple letters? My tongue
Mastered every imaginable knot. The hard
Candy lights were splinters on my tongue
Leaving me with neon colored paper cuts that
Bled the color of leaves falling silently outside
The building while I tried over and over to say
4 simple letters: K-C-S-F

V. Testing testing one-two-three
I finally got those call letters out
Of my mouth as well as the time and
Temperature and I gave the time so much
That I began giving the time in different time
Zones and the temperatures on different planets
All of this while eating potato chips and getting
Fingerprints on the buttons and switches

VI. Testing testing one-two-three
One day the microphone died
The candy colored buttons wouldn’t light up
The turntables came to a halt
I opened my mouth…K-C-S-F
And nothing came out but shadows wrapped
In the skin of warped records and I coughed
Hard and the station engineer, who looked like
He came straight out of the Farm Bureau of
Investigation kicked open the door and said, what
The hell did you do? And I opened my mouth but
All that came out was dead air

VII. Testing testing one-two-three
Testing the temperature
Testing the time
Testing the waters of sound
Testing the dimly lit lights
No microphone
No booth
No glass
Just air

VII. Testing testing one-two-three
Four simple letters, K-C-S-F
A poem
From outside the glass
Dead air, alive
among the leaves

© 2018 Tony Robles