Monday, October 1, 2012

No Matter How You Slice It

In the middle of the street, far out at sea, at the
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.