Say My Name

What happens is the way the weather changes

or the sun sitting a few inches higher in the sky

bending back along the wings of 3 pelicans

gliding above the surfline…

A fistful of sand & a rippling curtain of mist

is about all I’m going to need for the forseeable

PART TWO (later that same day):

The collected writings of Chuang-Tzu

balancing on the broken neck of a tequila bottle

PART THREE (whenever):

A skate wheel, an avocado, the nape

of your neck & all the crooked numbers left

            on the table like weighted dice

CODA:

1) That’s you speed-shifting on Mulholland Drive

2) That’s me in the headlights

Flower of Michoacán

Tap.  One, two, three, four.  Tap.

Click.  

Everything is light & dark.

I should give a fuck.

                          Hello.

"You have evidently mistaken me for

someone who gives a fuck."

Tree fern.

Sea shell.

      3 yards of the finest silk.

                  21 miles of pavement.

Ocean W A V E S .

Tap one. Tap two. Tap three. Etc.

If your tongue swells, your vision gets blurry,

or if you have trouble memorizing The

Rime of the Ancient Mariner

it may be the sign of a serious side-effect.

If you experience chronic feelings of euphoria,

or start walking funny

seek medical help immediately.

Revelator Blues (A Valentine)

for Pamela

A sunset sky w/vinyl upholstery & tinted windows

parked just above the ocean horizon

You can see it from horseback

on the bluff where the seabreeze strums the barbed wire

Possessed as time

a furious passion

            rattling in the eucalyptus

like the ghost of a previous expense account that

neither of us ever knew

It all comes down to a loaded deck of loteria cards

unfurled like a scroll of waves in your dreams

where I speak to you in a cardiovascular language

whispering the sweet nada that you know & I know

you love to hear

50 Shades of Turquoise

A grip of dreamless blonde sand

& all the indulgences wrecked on adrenalin & perfume

drenched in corrugated steel.

                        The sky & the streets slanting down into the sea

                        just like me

                                    in advance of a cold breeze off the water

                                    that has knives in it.

You need not fear the Eskimos drinking Vietnamese coffee

nor the waterlogged legions of the dead leaving their damp

footprints on the concrete.

The beach is lit with votive candles in glass

            jars painted red & the damp pavement breathes

                                                the same air you & I do.

Draining the color from telepathic neons

the tides answer to a mythology

older than the gravity that sleeps in every stone

cobbled along the shore.

                        Something we don’t understand & only half believe

although you would probably dance to it if given

half a chance. 

                        We hit the road for Malibu or Damascus I

                        can’t remember exactly which.

                        A pharmacy in Chinatown, fish tacos in a parking lot

                        near the beach.  Redemption wasn’t in the cards.

                        Stagelit streets descending as in Tangier, or Todos Santos,

                        or an Albuquerque by the sea.

                        We slept on a stone floor in El Rosario

                        awakened in the dark by the thunder of the surf.

                        I may have been reaching out to you

                        with two or more hands

                        at that very moment

                        bending like a spoon to the flame.

A heel of sidewalk groaning with albatrossian hang-time

bedecked with seaweed brocade.  A surf manual

translated into Church Latin.  Chop suey w/a Spanish accent.

Straight from the bottle that stuff

lingers like a puff of Papal smoke.

So promulgated between tides.

There was sand in my ear & a million reasons

the air was seasoned with saltmist & car exhaust

            & your heart was like a flotation device…

The road north was just like the road south

only played in reverse.  I rolled in at

twilight feeling like Cortez—a real killer. 

Nothing had changed.

(Je Suis) Charlie Don’t Surf

I swallowed some seaweed laced with

30-weight oil then

pulled out my guitar & sang Allah Be Good

launching into a prowling mambo

like Chuck Berry on Mexican radio

I got religion somewhere between the

second chorus & the freak-out section

but I gave it away to someone who needed it

I was still dancing when they took me home

Bonnie Moronie, Be-Bop-A-Lula, Twist & Shout

I said we have to spill a little something here

in honor of the dead

You handed me a can of Diet Dr. Pepper

You were wearing a t-shirt that resembled the

Pacific Coast Highway

awash in sunlight & doom

& I was replacing riptide intervals of shattered glass

w/the silver-green ripple sound 
of eucalyptus