Alternate Route

Banging around in the night cocoon
1971 is still smoking pot somewhere in
Santa Monica, either that or
swilling cough syrup in the S.Cruz sand
w/a ziplocked future
& a miniature speargun

in the fog

& like the fog we drifted up the coast
scratching our names into the mist
in a broken breeze on a broken street
with broken kisses that kept us tied to
slow-water inconsistencies swept beneath
as one might park the damp pavement
on a cliff above the beach

resigned to what we dreamed was true