Sunday, June 30, 2013

If we meet later you won’t know me

like it was magic     
                                                a spell
            an enchantment

                                    Descending tides
reflected in mist & foam

            Aleister Crowley induced
                                    forensic incantations

Something I guess only sea-beasts
                        & Martians can hear?

A series of dreams
                                    sped up now played in reverse

Dear Kenneth Anger

Saturday, June 29, 2013

Shell Game

“I is another” Arthur Rimbaud.

“I yam what I yam” Popeye the Sailor Man.

Sean Penn reprising Jeff Spicoli but playing me,

“Aloha, Ezra Pound.”

Friday, June 28, 2013

Truth as History, or An Ode to Medicine

Whatever happened to the blue sparkle
dancing across the water?
            The Adoration of the Magi
                                                if you want to get technical
                                    & who doesn’t?

I got the bongos but not the sunset

            plus an empty jar of vaseline
            & a voodoo doll in a grass skirt

“Priests and magicians are used in great number”
saith the I Ching

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Drop step & lean into it as it falls

At last it is summertime
                                    I am not wearing a hat
I am at one with the drizzling fogmist
                        & the traffic jam on Water Street

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Winged visitors to the back yard today:
                                                2 towhees
                                                1 mockingbird
                                                3 scrub jays
                                                1 black phoebe
                                                            & a dragonfly

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
(Don’t get up, gentlemen,
                        I’m only passing through)

Monday, June 24, 2013

And Chrome Will Haunt Your Dreams

I noted gloom merely
                                    the time of day (night) or
submergent dalliance of ocean
                                                            fog persisting
at noon
                      not to be fooled with (though
a certain evanescence
                              in the guise of an extended vacation
                                                ie, a separate realm of existence
                                          quietly shrugs one another as if to say
                              “It is sad.  You are not transparent.”

Drum thump for nothing encased in drizzle open & shut
plus a cement slab of sky slanting percipitous

                                       if you blink you might miss it

otherwise lost or defiant but never both at the same time

                           by faith subdued & stagelit
                                         alleyways leading to the beach

Mist lifted from the waves proclaims its presence
“Remember me?”

                                    high tide        2.3 ft. at 5:48 p.m.
                                                           winds light & variable

Friday, June 21, 2013

Classical Studies

incense, seed pearls, the ace of tentacles
Ode to a Buick Skylark

“The ocean was there just a minute ago”
good to the last drop

green lush Bolinas / green lust Santa Cruz

variations on a theme (from one slippery         
mind to another)    

We call that row of empty bottles “dead soldiers”
although the battle has yet to begin

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Standing in Line at the Taco Wagon

The circumstances that drive these hours
& days                       
            & the speed at which they pass
                                                “no comprendo”

as soon as you connect the dots they
                        scatter & reform sometime later
which is now
                        (sign & intial here)

Either direction, or both, I hazard to guess
                        nothing new on a scale of one to ten
it’s all stems & seeds

            except perhaps the memory of same

& the awkwardness of the one-legged seagull

                        but only on land
                                    when in flight it’s a different story

way west        & deep

Sunday, June 16, 2013

The Thin Line Between Friday Night & Saturday Morning

What are we doing here
when we all have someplace else to be?

Refections in a silver eye

Return to Sender                      Handle with Care

                               heavy smoke, seagull feather

(intricate rhyme schemes so tenderly forgotten)

We watched the quail, a hunting & gathering tribe, wander
thru the yard all day.  “They are an indigenous people.”  Crow
calls & chainsaws create a certain ambiance, no?

It looks like we’ll be here for a while

And later, a small rectangle of dark blue sky w/stars
transforms itself into a small graywhite rectangle of
fog at dawn.  Only one way to get there, I guess we'll
need to install a handrail.

“Excuse me.” “Is that you?” “Be quiet.” “Don’t go.” “Listen.”

Sand pebbles say “We’ll be here long after you’re gone”
Seaslug: “Sorry I missed you”

      Composed in the Philip Whalen Memorial Hermit’s Hut
      at the home of Joanne Kyger & Donald Guravich in Bolinas
      Friday night/Saturday morning, June 14-15, 2013

Friday, June 14, 2013

You don’t go killing all the bees

for Ainsworth

This Sunday’s services begin & end with
a mixture of hashish & tobacco
rolled in page 37 of our hymnal
                                                  (not really
it was actually a page ripped from one of those
miniature tide books they hand out at the Desolation
Surf Shop, corner of Tidewater & Sunset)

The subject of today’s sermon is
“The Dark Night of the Soul, or 
                                   Someone had to be There"
Addressing the congregation:
It is a wicked world although there are nasturtiums
& palm trees growing in it
& an ocean that stretches from 38th Ave to the
                                                                 drop edge of yonder
            any given Wednesday with pennies in my sneakers
                        & a dirty blonde alibi
                                    (the conditions of my parole)

What I meant to say was:
The steep gradual fogmist gave me yet another reason
to double back thru the cuts only to resurface on the bluff
            Ape in the rain at Cuernavaca
                        resurrected in dice games on the ocean floor
translated into every language even bird song
            & bubbles & the noiseless cry of algae
                        as the credits roll up
                                    & the music swells

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

This song & dance is dedicated to José Throwhammer, Jenny Staccato, & Tina Damp (you know who you are)

Pale moon
fluttering in a corner of the sky
                                                            spilling salt-
                                                across the swamp known as Beach
                        the silver & the gold
                                                            & so forth
turquoise & chrome

                                                            ― a vast expanse, a great expense ―

               I’d trade in this sunburn for a sea-blue El Camino
                                      but deals like that just don’t happen anymore.

Strange bodies hovering outside the cheap cigarette store

                        there has to be an explanation
                                                                                 & I’m working on it
but it spooks the horses

Friday, June 7, 2013

There is reportedly a “cure”

It all happens in here (pointing)
broken silvergreen sentences
sustained by the lyric instability
of wet stones blinking in the foam
imprinted with scripture of some sort
graffiti that predates any known language
or wireless reception
The meaning of time like a stolen wristwatch
& everything else the fortune teller
forgot to say        who whispers in a cardiovascular language
the kind of thing you hear only when you’re not
listening        any other voice responding
spoken, unspoken                hell, I don’t know…
I guess it’s just another way of not being seen
There’s something there that will never change
precariously altered by the telling

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Try it this way

Straight from the bottle that stuff
lingers like a puff of Papal smoke
an inquiry into the motive of the wrong-way driver
no comfort to take & none given

I thought of the bells ringing in your own private Shangri-la
& what it might look like from a parking lot in Huntington Beach
just before it rains

                                     When it’s your dice or mine, all
         or nothing,
                      that she be there in all her splendour
                                                                 (Charles Olson)

w/her irradiated pearls, ethanol eyes
& camouflage lip-gloss…

assuming her passion is more like a made for TV sequel than
fog laying down
                               flat upon the water
                                                                 on the darkest day of summer
in late November
                             but just as smooth just as relentless
when I’m six steps from whatever
                                            preempted by the evening tide