intersection of Africa and Beach Flats
tomorrow, or the day after
shattered, distracted, standing by the gate that once betrayed a
husk of roses in the evening fog, the sunlight slanting in
I meant to say nasturtiums & the rattling
of metallic palm leaves
easily mistaken for the last scene of Hamlet
or Reservoir Dogs
Sand
pushes past the horse latitudes
We
drove there like Mayakovsky
or
Su Tung-p’o in a late model Chevy with 4 bald tires & a cracked cylinder head
burning oil on the road to the land of the Dead
Sometimes
the mist drifts past like a great whale
other
sometimes it’s more like a Martian landing party at Oxnard Shores.
Standing
by the gate. Spiked kool-aid. Dark sun glasses.
A
t-shirt. White.Fluttering in the dark.
Chinese
weather.
