Airport Music On the Way to San Francisco

Between flights, between rows, between seats. Between states. I’m heading to San Francisco from North Carolina. I have no flowers in my hair. I have stuffed pieces of myself in my luggage; a Filipino piece, a black piece, an Irish piece to be crammed in the overhead luggage compartment before skipping over, under–in between–time zones. The airport is a dance. It is a quirky dance of aeronautic suspended animation. In walking the corridors you observe fellow travelers; they have arrived, are ready to embark or occupy an area of waiting–a sort of “time-out” state where one can catch one’s breath or wind of what one has missed. Going back to San Francisco after 4 years living in North Carolina. The pieces of me I carry in my luggage–the Filipino piece, the black piece, the Irish piece–all move about, looking to come together, to reconcile, to become what I know as Frisco. Going back to San Francisco–Frisco–going back to myself–going back to what? In the airport you have no home, you are in a place of uncertainty–will my flight arrive? Did I lose my boarding pass?

The things that identify you are taken from you by people in uniforms. You are patted down. Shoes, belt, jacket come off. Your wallet and phone are deposited in a plastic bin to be scrutinized. You are no longer in control. In San Francisco, the things that identify you are taken as well–your home, your memories, your art; and sometimes your dignity and mind in the name of profit. San Francisco, a giant snake eating its own tail, shedding its own skin. Yet I return. The Frisco fog traveled 3 thousand miles to North Carolina to find me. It covered me in its damp coldness and said: Remember me?

Yes, I remember you shooting black and brown people in the street. I remember that the city forgot its people, forgot who it was. But in this area of suspended aeronautic animation, I remember the people, the poetry, the music, the fire of Frisco that made me a poet. I return to it–a visit–to the city that created me, for better or worse, skipping over time zones and heart stones in search of the beat of my Frisco heart 3000 miles away.




Please participate. Say something about this and be heard.

  • Glenis Redmond, Poet Laureate of Greenville, SC
    Tony Robles sat down to talk with Glenis Redmond, the first poet laureate of Greenville, SC on Sunday, March 26. They had a wide-ranging conversation about Greenville, the Carolinas, writing, her books and her plans as the poet laureate.
  • i am not you
    we be free do you see what i free not be you see i what free be me
  • wrong
    all for naught fraught with care don’t be where you knot belong
  • Overheated Heart
    I see the smoke in your car for a long time, the younger one says They get ouf of the truck and tell me to pop the hood
  • to belong
    i know i go i flow i see i free i me part of whole a soul
  • Shame Game
    he covers her cage with his rage, takes her song, tells her she’s wrong, weak, shouldn’t speak. she waits long for dawn.
  • Good morning
  • Children in the Caribbean and Tribes in New York
    Martha Cinader speaks with Opal Palmer Adisa in Jamaica, author of Pretty Like Jamaica, published by Caribbean Reads. Martha also speaks with author Chavisa Woods, Executive Director of A Gathering of the Tribes in New York City. Tony Robles reads poetry from Issue 16 of A Gathering of the Tribes Magazine.
  • good morning
    one little muscovy
  • he chose me
    fresh with still-wet hair spit on my pubescent idea of fair, a wad on my head to add to my dread that he might lash out about a girl as wrong as a protest song
%d bloggers like this: