Look Out Below

Gassing up the Swampmobile I’m slogging through incoherencies like tears, every step or wheel, Hermosa to La Jolla, back to Venice, Point Dume, Hammonds Reef (I wouldn’t recognize nor would you now, waking up in Santa Cruz thinking it’s Mexico, or Japan, & the fog reaching in through the window all parlance & midnight, all palm tree & dust, minus the beach at Golgotha, from a distance I decided was acrylic & stained by my presence).   The warp of road subsequent where you would expect a mist of revelation spun from aluminum samples & a limited playlist (to reconvene a last finger of cypress within a wavering dance thru machetes & blue light aesthetically arranged beneath an off-brand palm tree stigmata
                              gone from Kon Tiki shadows
                                                giving all that has been taken
                            the blank of hearts, the ceremonial grind,
                                                                the shoreline sounding
                                                along the edge of your breathing (veiled
                              as beads of hammered steel
                              beneath the waves
                                                (not far from that place we never left