Not To Be Sold East of the San Andreas Fault

I live in the nation known as the Pacific Coast
where the sky sometimes is like a polished spoon
& the tide rolls in to keep my eyes blue
even when I’m not thinking of you & the barefoot
palm trees are tweaking parked outside the
Apocalyptic Taqueria a block from the beach
where the ocean is rocking itself to sleep
& on a clear day you can see the Great Wall of China
ticking in the sun like a waterproof wristwatch
& you can count your blessings if you have any
or shut down in the neon haze that invades
the parking lot & changes the way you think about
moonlight rusting on the bottom of a rainpuddle
(for example) even when it hasn’t rained for a month
& the sidewalk is stained with the blood of fuchsias
& the light gets heavy thinking about it         seagulls
crash & burn but the cameras keep rolling & you’re safe
behind dark glasses waiting for the fabric of time to unravel
like a Mars bar melting on the lid of your heart