It’s dark down here on the sand
although the sky’s lit up like
Mega-Millions gnawing on a lightbulb
above the pearl-handled tide
& the way
your breathing sort of
ripples thru
the mist
makes me want
to pull the shade on
a thousand
years worth of
ocean sunsets
but I’m hooked on whatever happens after
as the streets
give up their
trembling
denial
& the moon
hauls out it’s
black velvet
paintings
each worth at
least a half-
minute of silence
pacific
standard time
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Vista Point
Ornamental
pavilions of rust
consecrate the
shoreline
caught in the
glare of fishscale chrome
as far as the
eye can see
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We get that golden aura off the
late afternoon sun & we’re several bottles past
the trembling blue agave light
as at Playa San Pedrito
previously breathing fire & sea-mist
The initials carved there in the half-light
explaining nothing as I can only remember
the taste of her lips
& the smooth transition
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Angle of Repose
Bending in the rain
like a
double-jointed palm tree
as the flashlight batteries give out…
Arcades of
black eternity in blue mascara
out there in
the windblown seaweed
the meaning of time like a stolen wristwatch
& you can sing along if you want to
following these damp footprints back to when you
never knew the difference
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When asked of their origins
the Chumash point to the west
out over the Pacific Ocean
as being the home of the First People
a place they call the Land of the Dead
where the Great Spirit lives
in a crystal cave
on the bottom of the sea
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BROKEN SILVERGREEN SENTENCES
SUSTAINED BY THE LYRIC INSTABILITY
OF WET STONES BLINKING IN THE FOAM
She was stapled like a cloud
to a corner of the sky
the color of beach pavement
&
I was a wine-stained tombstone cutback
as ominous as a shadow
falling
across a bead curtain
in
another room
The sunset glass made it a perfect
setting for
a soul session with the drainpipe crew
& we danced on the string of a
tropical memory
as
she always preferred something euphoric
a tidepool with a fuse in it
for example
lit
& sputtering
as long as it left a scar
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The water was
cold
the waves had a
glassed-in purity
that shattered
into white foam
with plumes of
mist flying back
(The
Dragon in the Waves)
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Circling the
Drain
like trance
music & sun stroke
to float the memory
sleazy but
essential
& no more
shipwrecked kimonos
to worship in silhouette
where we’re the
only survivors left
to blink in the fog
& wonder
why
