Motive & Opportunity

1.

Tidal swamp brocade

a tangle of nasturtiums

green leaves chrome yellow

blossoms

light & stones & trembling

petals

            rushing seafoam whispers

2.

Light swamps brocade

a tangle of whispers

chrome yellow & trembling

seafoam

            green leaves blossoms

            & stones

3.

Light in the seafoam

tangled chrome

yellow brocade

swamp stones trembling

                         to be sure

          whispering green leaves

          rusted nasturtium blossoms

who knows why petals

tidal wash sand swept beach pavement

now you see it

4.

& now you don’t

Moe Howard in the Underworld

The winter sun tells its own story

The beach sliding beneath the foam & variegated

sparkle of the winter sea tells another

the sound of waves crashing in a bottlecap

for example

         flickering neon behind scarred glass

                  a nun weeping at the ticket window…

Souls out of Erebus or Bakersfield

or any given night on Hollywood Blvd

stagger into the spotlight

led by one who is little more than a shadow

sketched in a mirror

armed with a seltzer bottle, a lead pipe,

& a Beatles haircut

Those sledgehammer eyes glaring beneath

         thunderous eyebrows in that dark place

                  & the spiked kool-aid reflecting all of this

                           like wet sand at low tide

carefully folded like a piece of concrete

& kept close to your heart

that we may learn the steps & the consequence 

Some Might Say

A rain heavy sky

dark, mid-morning, winter

preempted by Bela Lugosi in Island of Lost Souls

Morphine Like Swimming

& a black stocking mask that reveals more than it hides

A sky heavy w/rain

I heard someone say it could have been the time of day

or maybe it was just the terza rima that everyone seems to speak

in my dreams

Heavy rain sky

I’d like some magic at this point

nothing special just the everyday run-of-the-mill type magic

& a safe dry place to put it when its done

Chinese Take-Out

It was like leaded glass out there

when I got back I couldn’t hear out of my right ear

         & yet I was so captivated by your

         hesitation & the way the wind dropped to its knees

                  in how shall I say it “awe”

I did my Dude the Obscure routine & she lit another cigarette

dueling saxophones & a big Chevy V8

providing the soundtrack

dark notes & the remedy “on the cuff” they say

         but they never mean it that way

                  shuffled in as it is with all of the other small

sufferings of the heart & such

         only tends to make one feel stupid & why not

We’ll sit out on the pier pretending we don’t

know each other & we’ll count the stars

There aren’t as many as there once were so it won’t take long

Channel Nine

Dragons in the clouds

I know how they got there but I can’t tell you

To sink or to swim

it’s an interesting question but I’d just as soon sit back

& see what happens

Nine seagulls in a loose formation flying back to the beach

means the rain will be stopping soon

________________________________________

The sun

light slips

in be-                                      What time is it?

neath the

clouds

________________________________________

On, out, & over,

over the edge, & back,

under, I’m just asking, & caving in like the Upanishads on a

Tuesday morning after, not necessarily tangled in seaweed,

the deep white blue haze fades into snake games on the side-

walk, which was to be expected, given the way you said it, I’ll

say, & saying it over again just to make sure I got it right, I

wrote it all down, backwards…

________________________________________

Helicopters were called in to

investigate reports of a floater

out near the end of the jetty

Big Wednesday

Some things are best said without words

your tears for example told me more

than I ever wanted to know

& not unlike spilling rosary beads into a

lifesize replica of the Pacific Ocean

parked near the intersection of Wipeout & Windward

which I often referred to as “Wind Word”

seeing as my shoelaces were untied & ¿Que te parece, Cholita?

as they say on a moonless night at high noon in Beach Flats

Pee-Wee, Paco, Esmerelda, & Lupe as he was known then

though of Irish extraction aptly nicknamed Weasel

on the streets of Santa Monica in or around 1974

died of unspecified “complications” as we all must I guess

everyone shocked or amused              flip a coin

Something to do with prying off bumper stickers

on days when the asphalt sagged beneath the weight of an

obscure sky “Earthquake Weather” they called it

warning that the California coast would eventually

slip into the sea & not a moment too soon

We Had a Shared Medical Condition

What it was held up to a patchwork sky

leaning in on the serpentine coast

darker than that god you used to pray to

at every roadside shrine we passed

I decided that you eyes were

like the pigeons of the Holy Ghost

roosting upon the Temple of Ephesus at dawn

or was it the Ventura pier at sunset?

Either way the rustling of wings

took me back to the palm trees of Venice

& the Egyptian labyrinth of alleyways I trekked

every day on my way to the beach

It never ends until it does like breathing

& to crisscross the furious tropic of dreams

I said Tell me EVERYTHING but

please be ambiguous

& the light fell like dust on the pages of our

sworn testimony as a warm breeze rolled

thru the fortune palms

Today is November 19

Hey, Joanne

Happy Birthday

Deliverance

The bottle was half empty

that’s a fact

perception had nothing to do w/it

I taught myself Spanish

just so I could sing along

Doors opened and shut

The concrete steps that led

down to the beach were covered in

graffiti, blood, and seaweed

The wet sand was the color of your eyes

I was sipping the salt mist

you were sliding past all that

like a shadow on stained glass

The music was great

I did the Shuffle, I did the Stroll, I did the

Quasimodo

Water Music

for Alison

Remnants of summer still

layered in ocean fog

A butterfly, a seashell,

a guided tour thru the

entertainment capitals of the world

There was a time I thought a thesaurus was a kind of dinosaur

Although I was hopelessly distracted by Water Moon Kuan-yin

& some rather naive local shrubbery it was the cloud pattern that

kept me guessing

& like those who know or those who don’t but wish they did

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

                        as they present an interesting tableau set against the 
hazy blue upholstery of a late summer sky

                            green entanglements notwithstanding

I had a stolen surfboard & a library copy of Songs & Sonnets 

my hands resembled my father’s & my heart was like a Mars bar

melting on the manifold of a ’56 Chevy

Hawaiian Noises

The green lipstick was a dead giveaway

& measured in intervals like beach tar

but only when the heart drops like a pelican

& the haze settles in behind your sunglasses

like something that can only be found in

Diebenkorn’s Ocean Park series

though scarred like the underside of a skateboard

I took every possible detour getting here

any number of which could have resulted in

blurred vision or feelings of euphoria

but having mastered the art of walking Spanish

I was uniquely qualified to spill a Bloody Mary into

a Malibu swimming pool shaped like the pale ocean sky…

Such passion is usually reserved for those with some cachet

though peeling rubber in the clinic parking lot

certainly didn’t hurt any

it was kind of like a skin disease nobody wants to talk about

set to the music of a plastic souvenir ukulele

& the pale ocean sky, remember?

it was like a roll of film that had never been processed

Breathing thru yr fingertips

Dropping in on one last mushy floater was

just going to have to be enough

knees slightly bent, arms hanging down, relaxed

Jack Christ on a mule a seabreeze rattling the palm trees

great blue heron heading east like Bodhidharma

signs & wonders or what little Jimmy found

on the tideflats I believe in the supremacy of rust

The Mask of the Redeemer

late summer nights that smell of burned fog

Sat right down in the middle of the street

talking to myself a trick I learned at the halfway house

it was the Feast  of St. Francis

The Blessing of the Animals

a final reckoning a photo opportunity

From the beach you could just make out

a rolling left break w/a bowl section

mas fina off the point shrouded in mist

Seafoam & adrenalin in a mason jar tucked under yr arm

ars poetica made of time & water hecho de tiempo y agua

to be exact following deer tracks in the wet sand

sworn to a sky of turquoise and of silver

iron rebar bleeding rust onto broken concrete

the roach of “whatever”

& the descending of the tide

End of Summer Sale

It felt as though I was reliving the

chord changes of Lou Reed’s Sweet Jane

Chalk it up to nerves & a feeling for

            dark corners where there aren’t any

I’m assuming it was systemic

as it lead to all kinds of fancy slide-step action

            while wearing a lucha libre mask

& 4 bald tires & a leaky fuel pump later

            it occurred to me that I may have only been

                        experiencing a flashback

The hot wind from inland was dry & scented w/ozone

like an old library copy of Pliny

Evidently a Design Flaw

Listening to “The Water-Damaged Blues”

a real toe-tapper like

            rusted emeralds spilling against the

                        rocks cobbled along the shore

“Anointed w/seafoam”

I had acquired a very particular set of 

skills over a long & desperate career

last seen copping a couple of blank

            sheets from god’s prescription pad

which resulted in a decidedly Roman Catholic hitch

in my getalong

                                    & as my sense of morality was

roundly criticized I decided to concentrate on my

footwork

which she insisted on referring to as an

“exit strategy”

            but I wasn’t so sure of the rhyme scheme

                        in the third stanza

                                  entitled “It’s only a head wound, Ma”

(nothing that can’t be fixed w/a little nail polish)

& there was nothing left to do but drive

90 miles-an-hour in reverse

back to the beach

                        where I cultivated all the poise & presence

                        of a burned-out movie star 

Antisocial Networking

Ain't got the do-re-mi
Dry leaves rattle like
empty beer cans

Variations on a Meme
Uniforms in an unmarked car

Sign Language
Giant ropes of seaweed
tied around tree trunks
& a riddle of stones
carefully laid out in a pattern
on the sand

The Getaway
Falling past the lark & seagull sky
            (painted in colors I
                        couldn't begin to describe)
all the streets here
            slope down to the sea

Light & Proportion

The 3-Second Rule

She said I was transparent but

it didn’t mean that she could see through me

Guess Again

Blue sky w/clouds

strategically placed

            like defining moments

                        Smells Like Coppertone

                        Your glory days never did quite pan out

the way you thought they would, matching quarters in the

vacant lot across from the taco wagon, or counting the grains

of sand that filled cracks in the beach pavement as the late

summer sun boiled Vietnamese kool-aid

on the hood of a yellow Corvette

To the Revolutionary Cadres of Big Sur, Morro Bay, and Oxnard Shores (or, Sometimes a Great Ocean)

A short drive up the coast

            & the long walk back

(we had to confirm that the break was surfstainable)

but only during voodoo business hours

            Shadows on the water between tides

                        a pale green translucence

"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)

Each day is a lesson

knocking back cans of Oly & smoking

            Kool 100s w/Tippy-Toe Soul

                        out on the loading dock

to keep your blue eyes black

& your idle hands busy

            tunneling to Shangri-la

w/the seabreeze whispering like a billion dollars

in counterfeit bills

spilling from the canopy palms

Like So

“The creative person should have

no other biography than his works.”

                                        –B. Traven

My dirty eyes dusted w/sunlight

            hovering between transpacific jet lag

                        & the last recording of the Memphis Jug Band

I used to think “One day I’ll just disappear in Mexico”

until I did (as, but not like, Ambrose Bierce)

Now everything is different

The wind shufffing thru las palmas will never be the same

Something about karma & liberation

which could be better expressed by

her damp panties pulled to one side, for example

The sky is wearing a shiny blue suit in the green room

as seagulls pause in mid-air

above the waves

& all the luminous details

            like familiar faces you just can’t quite place

& never will

Probable Cause

The headline read:

More Buddhist-Catholic Voodoo, or

I Must Have Done Somebody Wrong

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

No Contest

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

            I plead guilty to

            transgressions

            both real & imagined

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

                    “My how time flies!”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

seems like

forever

A Crash Course in Circular Breathing

Melodic birdnotes & bedsprings

providing all the commentary required

& the doll-like way she

            sleeps in my dreams

her heart playing electric bongos you

            hold to your ear like a seashell

                        because this time you’re really listening

but then something she said

            made me feel as though I was

peering through the stained glass windows

            of a Coupe de Ville

                        parked on the bottom of the sea…

& now it’s later & I’m treading water

a shadow among the tangled seaweed swaying

& I don’t know where we’re going but 
we’ll be there any minute now

Uncut & Commercial Free

Guilt by Association

He said she said

& it all went to hell from there

Famous Last Words

“I’m sure you’re an excellent accordion player”

Show Me the Way to Go Home

1. Falling leaves & needles.

2. My voodoo doll piñata. 
3. Floating out to sea.

Auto Focus

Shrouded in a drizzle of mist

the ocean (reclining) insists

                                    SUMMERTIME BLUES

                                    (ain’t no cure, etc)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Boiling ocean poppies

on the black & blonde sand

                   Your errant passion, my autographed copy

                   of the sky over El Segundo

             ~ a light seduction ~

                                         I could swim thru all that you spill

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

pitching a fit

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

                                                           “Everything is water

                                                            if you look long enough”

                                                            (Robert Creeley)

A Man’s Got to Know His Permutations

The sky is whispering (green) & softly

dusted w/silver haze…

& so the message gets thru     encrypted     like her shoulders

which are bare white miracles darkened by the sun

            & riding the High-Stakes Bodhisattva Blue Cloud Express

            thru all that rippling concrete and asphalt

                        human forms, bird shapes, & fish shadows in

                        extraterrestial bonsai gardens planted in tide pools

                                                rocks strewn along the shore

                                                                        plus two & a half starfish…

Pelican surfing a thermal, stalls, turns, & drops (splash)

a mid-morning snack.

                        No waves. The ocean is asleep. Playing possum.

                       “I couldn’t find my sunglasses

                       & then I did.”

                                 “They were right there where the invisible

                                 skeleton hand left them.”

& so the next day…

endless failing, falling, fading                   walk around outside

in the sun under clouds      cactus, orchid, anemone     sunset/shadow

turquoise & silver (a “get-rich-quick scheme”

                               wrong from the get-go, burned in effigy, prayed to,
                               disemboweled on a stone
                               altar decorated with human teeth, pornographic
                               pictures & votive candles anxiously flickering
                               in little red glass jars
                               strumming the ribs of clouds

Lo que está en mi corazón

                     & Muddy Waters singing “Big Leg Women”

                     just to keep it honest

Polished bronze sky a dark mirror tilting into the sea

Okay, I guess, if taken in the proper dosage

(the proper dosage is always 5 times more than that which is recommended)

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

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

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