PLEASE HELP BLUE PRESS STAY AFLOAT

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Picking up the pesos

Wondering what happened
to all of the money
you didn't spend on drugs...
_________________________

          PAGAN RITUALS (the nuns
          used to pass around a can
          collecting coins for the
          "pagan babies")
_________________________

Pitching pennies into the sand
          the shoreline drenched in pale sunlight...

Great cities will grow there over night

                     & just as soon will vanish

Friday, July 11, 2014

Eternal Combustion Engine

Haze of blue light turning white
right there on the foam ledge

flower of Michoacán

reminds me of how warm the pavement could be
at night in Ocean Park the summer of 1975

released on your own recognizance…

“Do you know at the offering of which libation
the waters become endowed with a human voice
and rise and speak?” (Brihadaranyaka Upanishad)

everything wet, trembling

waiting for you to make the next move

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Travels in Abyssinia, the Harar & Santa Cruz

It’s dark down here on the sand
although the sky’s lit up like
Mega-Millions gnawing on a lightbulb
above the pearl-handled tide

& the way your breathing sort of
          ripples thru the mist
makes me want to pull the shade on
a thousand years worth of
                              ocean sunsets

but I’m hooked on whatever happens after
as the streets give up their
trembling denial
                           & the moon hauls out it’s
          black velvet paintings
                          each worth at least a half-
minute of silence
                       
         pacific standard time
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
            Vista Point
            Ornamental pavilions of rust
            consecrate the shoreline
            caught in the glare of fishscale chrome
            as far as the eye can see
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
We get that golden aura off the
late afternoon sun & we’re several bottles past
the trembling blue agave light
as at Playa San Pedrito
previously breathing fire & sea-mist
The initials carved there in the half-light
explaining nothing as I can only remember
the taste of her lips
& the smooth transition
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Angle of Repose
Bending in the rain
like a double-jointed palm tree
as the flashlight batteries give out…

Arcades of black eternity in blue mascara
            out there in the windblown seaweed
the meaning of time like a stolen wristwatch
& you can sing along if you want to
following these damp footprints back to when you
never knew the difference
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
            When asked of their origins
            the Chumash point to the west
            out over the Pacific Ocean
            as being the home of the First People
            a place they call the Land of the Dead
            where the Great Spirit lives
            in a crystal cave
            on the bottom of the sea
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
BROKEN SILVERGREEN SENTENCES
SUSTAINED BY THE LYRIC INSTABILITY
OF WET STONES BLINKING IN THE FOAM
She was stapled like a cloud
to a corner of the sky
the color of beach pavement
                                    & I was a wine-stained tombstone cutback
as ominous as a shadow
                                   falling across a bead curtain
                                                                  in another room

The sunset glass made it a perfect setting for
a soul session with the drainpipe crew
& we danced on the string of a tropical memory
                                   as she always preferred something euphoric
a tidepool with a fuse in it
for example
                                    lit & sputtering
as long as it left a scar
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
The water was cold
              the waves had a glassed-in purity
that shattered into white foam
                            with plumes of mist flying back
                        (The Dragon in the Waves)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Circling the Drain
like trance music & sun stroke
to float the memory
            sleazy but essential

& no more shipwrecked kimonos
to worship in silhouette
            where we’re the only survivors left
to blink       in the fog
                           & wonder why 

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Valvoline

Some say one last kiss could have
made all the difference
 
            but the wet sand isn’t talking & the wind
                        cuts down the alley like Odysseus
                                    crossing off eternity on a pocket calendar
 
& no I don’t believe we breathe the same air
 
2.
Sunset at Tierra del Fuego
A solo for steam-driven guitar
 
3.
            The light returning
            e quel remir
                                        suffused in haze
            silver in shadow
                           la luz de Oriente
                                        in a sharkskin bikini