Manifest Destiny

Andrew Jackson finally made it out West. Now

he cruises around the Mission District, bullies

eloteros and paleteros into giving him free sweets,

poisons the grease at El Farolito, steals

shoes from a homeless man napping on 18th Street. At sunset

he makes his final stop, sneers up at the Maestrapeace Mural—

             so many native faces—thought I’d erased them all—

decides to deface the wall,

squats on the curb, defecates into a gloved hand, moves

to throw it, too

             slow—time

moves different now: here comes

Coyolxauhqui, dismembered for trying to abort the War God, now

             re-membered, breaking free

of a stone tomb to tumble

                          rubble down upon the vandal. or perhaps

             Kwan Yin, deity

                          of compassion, slips silently

                                       away from her flowing mountain perch,

                                                    flourishes a crisp $20 bill, folds it into a lotus shape,

                                                                 passes it to Jackson and intones:

                                                                              get gone, ghost.