Dismantling the Beached Cadillac

All the parts add up
like names you can’t remember
the world as such laid out before me
here to read through with prescription
binoculors & a crescent wrench
as I would compile secret inventories
minus any lyric disclaimer
with a Fuck Death harpoon tag
relegated Torch Ballads, Tambourine Blues,
Saxophone Flashbacks & Mariachi Breakdowns,
Scenes of Life at the Capital by Philip Whalen,
The Pleasures & Pains of Opium / De Quincey,
Call Me Ishmael by Chas. Olson,
random scrap manuscriptos de Opstedal,
a pencil, a dirty ragged wedge of Sex Wax
wrapped in plastic,
threatening letters, a bottle of pills,
a harmonica, an out-of-date tide chart,
a small stack of postcards I never sent
& an empty Tecate can that you’ll hear humming
softly to itself when it’s quiet enough

Midnight Railslide

Park it on the street
where that powder tastes like
the rusty edge of a night in Long Beach

The wires pulled tight
against the light crystal pendulum
that never measured anything
let alone the capacity to cry on demand

Laying down near the Innerspace Blues
a lullaby rocker with electric cowbells
that roars toward you like a tractor
with the high-beams on

Transsiberian Luau

A ghost Cendrars wearing a
steel-plated beret tilted at a 45 degree angle
just drifted past the deciduous cathedral
also tilted at a 45 degree angle

Puffs of smoke accentuate the sky-
blue aluminum & glass recycled from some
other time (southeast of here)

I was counting sand pebbles in the
fading light as the wings of cormorants
divided now from forever just
inches above my head

The sun tumbling over the horizon
the way movie stars dive off balconies
whatever the reason
into tear-stained buckets of cement

Catching Air

Breathing is a full time job
              even more so if you spend your days
diving into puddles with a speargun
                              & a 12-pack of Corona Extra
              like a pantomime Ishmael
                                                standing in line at the Moby Taco
                              wearing an Ahab t-shirt

You can always pass out behind the wheel
pop the clutch & fishtail up the coast
hold your breath until the sun sets
& scratch your name into a fender of sand

Something about the way stones breathe
              when you’re not there
aligned with the hollow myth of a future
                              that doesn’t pan out as you
              bank on an imagined history
                                                made of thick Mexican glass
                              shattered on the dark side of the heart

The Order of Arrival

It’s called a waiting room because
that’s all you can do there
Urgent Care really doesn’t have any
sense of urgency
All the clocks seem to be broken
as we thumb thru ancient magazines
avoiding eye contact
hoping to keep our pain & fear
a secret even though it may be
the only thing we share here

Chinese Ink

The sky gets shut down
              with winter clouds
as I zero in to zone out
                              but like Eddie Poe
              cradling a 40 of laudanum
sitting back in a burgundy naugahyde
Laz-E-Boy

              near the outer limits of a
                              lassitude to be so devoutly pursued

& it’s like a grip of smoke
              where the strings of my
                              demolished harpsichord snap in the
              vast tidal sweep
                                                on a moonlight drive
                              off the end of the pier
              with you still wearing those pearl-colored
                                                                neon shades

Drainpipe Concerto

Puttering around in the narcotic cemetery where pink plastic flamingos are planted in place of tombstones.   The inscribed epitaphs like closed captions in invisible ink beneath names & dates all of which are the same.   I have a map & a scorecard but without a telescope it’s hopeless.   The shake & bake flowers are nice though.   They bow their heads & mutter vague obscenities to themselves.   Bathed in albacore light the place is peaceful enough, like an underwater themepark in midwinter.

Archives: Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Central Library downton Los Angeles.   Lewis MacAdams reading & publication party for The River: Books One, Two & Three (photo by Gary Leonard)

Exile

Total eclipse
Damped strings
Tamales in the parking lot
rain (all day with the motor running

Strands of uncertain tinsel

At the far end of the beach turning
your back on the ocean

find your own path thru the debris

bloodcolored rust, twisted
pieces of steel & concrete

Empty bottles warped by darkness
nestled in among
stones that burst into flames