Standing by the water–
it was easy to imagine
another life, as a fish
might live–darting
from the deep to
the shallows, or a crab
on land, scuttling
the shoreline
in fear of seagulls
or even that
of a stubborn barnacle
attached to a rock
alternately attacked
and caressed by tidal waters…
Standing by the roiled surface
reflecting on an existence
other than the one given
of a multi-tasking, confused
and spiritually ambivalent human
torn between money, sex
love and worship; entertaining
the simple creatures
with blunt admiration
Standing there in the waning afternoon
the way an apex predator knows
it’s superior in evolution
But still longs
for something simple.

I forgot how to breathe
And you showed me with
The words; to use
Experience as breezes
Use the rain–
As tension leaves
The soul and rivers flow
The mysterious sound
Of clapping hands
And diminishing sorrow
The laughter we paint
As shadows evaporate
Resting in the bliss
That time has made
And which your words
Have helped
To make true.

I wish
it was Monday
But it’s the seventh
day of the week, instead
And I know I can’t
live by numbers
or the color of the night
which is inky or black
or darker than dark–
it’s futile
to turn off the light
because there’s only more;
a stilted recollection
of Friday, the songs
that sounded
vaguely different
a door that shuts
with a terminal, wincing sound
the smell of a lonely
pungent skunk in the yard
about which the irritable
neighbor was complaining;
wanting it dead or gone–
against nature
against the world
the senseless arresting me
I wish it was Monday
but it’s only Sunday
a day away from not
knowing anything, except
that neighbor looks
like Buddy Holly.

You reach out to me
with your incompleteness–
a solitary figure
on the beach at lowtide
walking away, not towards
or a skater out
on thin ice
with no skates;
ill-prepared
poorly adorned
cold in summer
hot in winter
Like a glimpse of oneself
in the mirror
or a surprise look back
in reflection from a store window…
You call out to me
with your imperfection
muttering “oh well” and “whatever”
As though life is but
a half-measure
tripping in street cracks
and swearing at contractors
for jobs poorly done
in city planning and cement pouring
How can you control
the world when you can’t even
manage your own emotions?
That’s what I want
to know, So
I’m asking you
by asking me.

The fabric
of the day–
gulls flying
in gusts
traffic in its
grid pattern
lines up
the sky riddled
with clouds
as if painted
from a master
palate; stripes
of dirt along
the road
spelling out
a mysterious
earthen message:
to pay attention
to the fabric of life–
the empty look
of a vagrant
at Big Rock–
the fabric on
his American flag
torn, but still
waving from the back
of his bike.

It was never
peaceful
we grew used
to that–lights
turned down too low
a research of shadow
the stereo
turned up too high
often, I wore headphones.

Inebriation, a pursuit
the sea, too distant
was, still, in view
out the window;
on the shelf were objects
we didn’t understand–
our lives, for instance.

Or what life
might have been
had we gone straight;
put down the bottle
the pipe, the bindle…
Then, most days
even the dog
looked sad.

It’s a bigger sky
than your thoughts
can imagine
and it won’t be
contained by concepts
in places where
mens’ feet have
never trodden
mountains beckon the conjecture
as to why; the answer
lies in purple sandstone
green along a creekbed
beckoning sweetly
in the corner of an eye–
No place for your
ambitions and goals
except one foot at a time
on the noble, crumbling trail
that wraps the hills
with the disappearing thread
of its vast highway;
the locations you
can never forget–lost
as soon as
you find the words to describe
a summer afternoon
along the Sespe;
a gift with each breath
and unfolding persective
on a birthday, like last year’s
to the day; the landscapes
reborn with every moment
recalling our purposeful passage
and grateful for simply
being here, and alive.

I erased
what i’d written
and then wanted
to see it again–
lost behind the blizzard
of dim eraser bits
purple, pink & grey–
ill fated words jotted
in earnest;
a couple lines I scribbled
and hated and zealously
obliterated, and… then
wanted back again–
like a dead friend
to whom you need
to say just
one more thing.

Between vivid dreams
I awakened
and while eating
an ice cream sandwich
the wrapper pulled back
and crinkled and I had
an image of what God is–
Light along a streambed
on the white boulders
the western profile
of a mountain disappearing
a song barely audible
on the wind;
an unstrung guitar
in the corner
of a room painted green
a candle someone lit
burning orangered
and pine scented near Christmas
And right before
the ice cream sandwich
was regrettably finished;
chocolatey, melting & sweet
I realized God was none
of these and I knew
I would never know
what God is.

SInce I was a kid
that grand old sycamore
has towered over the PCH
at Cross Creek Road;
a shield of cascading green
for spring & summer walkers
home to flocks of gulls and crows
In the fall and winter
other times it bears posters
stuck irreverently to its trunk
and happily, soon, taken off
today, I look over
as I sip my coffee
and see a relative there
by the side of the road
one I’ve known since the early Sixties
like a family member and friend
and one I’m always happy to see–
no matter what mood
or season its in.