PLEASE HELP BLUE PRESS STAY AFLOAT

Monday, August 18, 2014

Uncut & Commercial Free

Guilt by Association
He said she said
& it all went to hell from there

Famous Last Words
“I’m sure you’re an excellent accordion player”

Show Me the Way to Go Home
Falling leaves & needles.
My voodoo doll piñata. Floating
out to sea.

Friday, August 8, 2014

Auto Focus

Shrouded in a drizzle of mist
the ocean (reclining) insists

                                    SUMMERTIME BLUES
                                    (ain’t no cure, etc)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Boiling ocean poppies
on the black & blonde sand

                   Your errant passion, my autographed copy
                   of the sky over El Segundo

             ~ a light seduction ~

                                         I could swim thru all that you spill
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
pitching a fit
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
                                                           “Everything is water
                                                            if you look long enough”
                                                            (Robert Creeley)

Friday, August 1, 2014

A Man’s Got to Know His Permutations

The sky is whispering (green) & softly
dusted w/silver haze…
& so the message gets thru     encrypted     like her shoulders
which are bare white miracles darkened by the sun

            & riding the High-Stakes Bodhisattva Blue Cloud Express
            thru all that rippling concrete and asphalt
                        human forms, bird shapes, & fish shadows in
                        extraterrestial bonsai gardens planted in tide pools

                                                rocks strewn along the shore

                                                                        plus two & a half starfish…

Pelican surfing a thermal, stalls, turns, & drops (splash)
a mid-morning snack.

                        No waves. The ocean is asleep. Playing possum.

                       “I couldn’t find my sunglasses
                       & then I did.”

                                 “They were right there where the invisible
                                 skeleton hand left them.”

& so the next day…

endless failing, falling, fading                   walk around outside
in the sun under clouds      cactus, orchid, anemone     sunset/shadow
turquoise & silver (a “get-rich-quick scheme”
                               wrong from the get-go, burned in effigy, prayed to,
                               disemboweled on a stone
                               altar decorated with human teeth, pornographic
                               pictures & votive candles anxiously flickering
                               in little red glass jars
                               strumming the ribs of clouds

Lo que está en mi corazón

                     & Muddy Waters singing “Big Leg Women”
                     just to keep it honest

Polished bronze sky a dark mirror tilting into the sea

Okay, I guess, if taken in the proper dosage

(the proper dosage is always 5 times more than that which is recommended)

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Picking up the pesos

Wondering what happened
to all of the money
you didn't spend on drugs...
_________________________

          PAGAN RITUALS (the nuns
          used to pass around a can
          collecting coins for the
          "pagan babies")
_________________________

Pitching pennies into the sand
          the shoreline drenched in pale sunlight...

Great cities will grow there over night

                     & just as soon will vanish

Friday, July 11, 2014

Eternal Combustion Engine

Haze of blue light turning white
right there on the foam ledge

flower of Michoacán

reminds me of how warm the pavement could be
at night in Ocean Park the summer of 1975

released on your own recognizance…

“Do you know at the offering of which libation
the waters become endowed with a human voice
and rise and speak?” (Brihadaranyaka Upanishad)

everything wet, trembling

waiting for you to make the next move

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Travels in Abyssinia, the Harar & Santa Cruz

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
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
            Vista Point
            Ornamental pavilions of rust
            consecrate the shoreline
            caught in the glare of fishscale chrome
            as far as the eye can see
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
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
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
            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
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
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)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
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 

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Valvoline

Some say one last kiss could have
made all the difference
 
            but the wet sand isn’t talking & the wind
                        cuts down the alley like Odysseus
                                    crossing off eternity on a pocket calendar
 
& no I don’t believe we breathe the same air
 
2.
Sunset at Tierra del Fuego
A solo for steam-driven guitar
 
3.
            The light returning
            e quel remir
                                        suffused in haze
            silver in shadow
                           la luz de Oriente
                                        in a sharkskin bikini

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Any Number Can Play

The water was cold & gave me a headache
in my left eye & my ears were filled with
bubble sounds like
a starfish playing ping-pong w/the eyes of a drowned
Phoenician sailor
 
            Those are pearls that catch the light & hold it there
 
                                    la luz…la luz es como el agua
 
& it is afternoon       all lit up & trembling
            maybe you’ve been there   sunlight
                        filtered through ocean haze
the light descending
            quick tide                  a ghost thing like love
a ringing stillness at the center of it surging
            & I’m thinking about the windswept articulation of sand
                                    drifting across the pavement
 
…el agua…          …la luz…
 
                                    I’ll let you decide although
we both know it doesn’t matter
 
We’ll make our way south by swimming across every
parking lot that ripples in the sun
from Bolinas Lagoon to the temple at Teotihuacán

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Another sad case of literate sunbathing

Seaflowers bend like assassins to their task
& in dreams I never hesitate
but I stop long enough to have my palm
read by a chainsmoking Ethiopian woman
wearing a hair net
 
She describes a darker shade of morning glory
 
It wasn’t like walking barefoot on broken glass
although the waves were rich in foam
& jagged pieces of sunlight
 
You glide between that which is given
& that which is taken away
 
Never mind the sparrow’s song nor the choir of
asthmatic gulls
                               there is a music that's best kept
somewhere deep inside  
somewhere you can go when you need to
 
& that’s where I am right now
 
hunkered down inside the sound a seashell makes
sliding across the strings of a dulcimer