Thursday, August 15, 2019

X Makes Y Sound Like Z

The cypress whistles from the cliff
            the blue sky turns gray turning pink
                        the ocean performs deep breathing
                                    exercises in the kelp grove

1. Trickle trickle
2. Blink
3, Mumbles                    alongside (parenthetically)
                                              Medieval French Verses
                                                  & The Principal Upanishads

The light the air as yet unbruised

                        & the truth kind of sneaks up on you
                                    like a perfumed cigarette

a long way from the sky garden
                        & its hydraulic chrysanthemums

Friday, August 9, 2019

Black & White & Blue Sky

for Miguel Price

Palm trees grow upsidedown in rain puddles outside the Chevron station on Hwy 1 but the Huichol they wear mirrors around their necks & talk about the bird that came from the underworld to place a cross on the ocean. Even though something may have been lost in the translation I'm sure that they meant every word of it. "That the poem will not abandon you is the one score that counts. Today's Bishop Sheen platitude." -Duncan McNaughton, Bolinas, California, somewhere in Dubai, Santa Cruz, later that same day, San Francisco. "Hope Springs Infernal" was how Philip Whalen said it. I wasn't sure if you knew that. Light / radiance / air. It's all right there. Hanging by a thread.

Thursday, August 1, 2019

Ripple Effect

I was observing a
psychosomatic minute of silence
& she was drinking tequila from an abalone shell
absolved of beauty
& the unconditional ecstasy of loss

It's all a game of echoes
emotional sonar
done w/mirrors

& later in the morning the rocks north of
the cove will be under water
& a clean right-break will peel in around the point

"Love's Apparition & Evanishment"
if you want to get technical about it

"It is advisable to look from the tide pool to the stars
and then back to the tide pool again."
                             (John Steinbeck,
                                       The Log From the Sea of Cortez)

Those empty waves at the
Lane deliver news of distant
storms that died at sea
leaving nothing but a soft
sigh to be picked up by a weather satellite
& transmitted to palm trees
along Beach Street