Thursday, February 7, 2013

All the Way

for Ainsworth
Tacos & tea on a Thursday morning
a shade past the derivative “Where am I?”
answered in the Mississippi dialectic
dialed-in to a high-speed curriculum
beneath a sky that reads like a cosmic cheat-sheet
& you can taste the ocean in the morning air here
the streets cutting thru the haze as if it were Baja or Tangiers
with a California coastal accent that has marked me
since birth or perhaps before like every car I ever drove
up & down the PCH on wine-stained mornings
looking for the shit
& finding it
although right now it’s as MacAdams wrote “Whither goest
poet, aging in the night” & I guess I’m breaking even
with the tides doubling up on me no matter what the
forecast says there’s a pile of scrap iron rusting in my heart
& I can’t tell if it’s the wind or the leaves talking
but I swear I heard the medicine man say have a smoke
& call me in the morning