The guy at
Coffee Bean
asks me bluntly
how I’m doing
and I say “Well, OK
for the moment
but I had a
fairly troubled youth…”
He nods and adds
“Yeah…I did too…”
and gazes off
into the distance
with a brooding look–
I was only kidding
for the most part
(entitlement issues &
substance abuse aside)
But I wonder if
I’ve suddenly opened
a Pandora’s Box–
if the guy has a gun
or a knife or might
go off–but he looks back
again, with a smile
and asks if I’m
going surfing later
And I’m made aware
most of my fears
are unwarranted.

He shook my hand
on arrival at Ado
with a sticky grip;
said he’d been at
the poetry transom
writing free verse
with a pen low on ink
I didn’t believe him;
something in the
slick Sicilian smile
(not that of a poet
more, a fisherman)
Or in the heavy gait–
Then, up the stairs he went
a birthday for the mayor
of Venice–some days
are like that–especially here;
in twists brought on
by a film town, where
everything needs to
be in synch–or to
make sense or rhyme
or to be right out
of a script…
When he descended
the stair, minutes later
He had five fresh poems
in hand–”The Lion & The Bee,
Thin Sun Over Venice, Blvd
Elegy, Nattering Watchdogs
Of The Coast & Mr. Lovely…”
And setting them down
before me, he said
with an almost haughty laugh
“When I wrote these today–
You and your strange images
were my influence…”

I told Penny Faith
sometime late in 1989
that the cars appeared
to almost float
nearing nightfall
in the odd Sepulveda Pass light
during October and November
on the 405 southbound
and she thought
it was a great observation
because Penny was high
sitting next to me
heading out to get more elixirs
from the Mexican dealers
in Reseda…
twenty years ago to date
Last week
somebody on a street corner
in town, in conversation
matter of factly
told me Penny had died
of an OD ten years ago
then changed the subject
to surfing and weather–
That’s how I knew
And now, I’m on the 405
Northbound in mid November
twenty years later
noting how the cars
heading southbound
appear to float
above the ground
in transit
as Penny might.

December doesn’t know
November’s almost finished–
at least, it’s half-way done
Like December, too…soon
will be through…
For now, it’s tepid coffee
dust on floor rocks
building up resiliently
the maid’s not yet come
(may never again, locked
harshly out last time)
And I’m simply too lazy
preoccupied or distracted
to do these simple things myself–
a true, focused professional–
I’d like to think (and I make the excuse)
that time will take care
of all the rudiments
but it won’t–
passing by, as it does
with crass indifference
hour after hour–
doesn’t it care
to better apportion its seconds
and minutes?
Don’t the mountains notice?
Sitting there, milennially mute witnesses–
almost dumb.
December doesn’t know;
and November’s in no hurry
After all–these are “The Holidays”
The rare and festive season
for which all the lesser months
line up.

Dancing around
like this, and not knowing
the proper steps
and stumbling along
bumping into objects
knocking them down
is awkward
all too human–
uncomfortable…
Maybe in time–we learn
It’s so unreasonable
to want what
I haven’t got, because
I have so much
and yet, I stumble along
dropping what’s in my hand
it breaks
I can’t hold on
to simple things
can’t walk with any
grace or elegance
without it seeming
studied, fake
premeditated;
I should have
been a
dancer.

It’s actually a big
empty room
with a vanished sun
a missing moon
and some stars
almost invisible;
scattered at random
on their own–you’ll never
make sense of them
don’t try–
But you will…
Similarly, a jet passes
like its lost, exits
that indefinite sky
with a lonely sound
just as soon–directionless
mistaken; its passengers
asleep undoubtedly
in dreams of home…
In the corridors below
it is skunk hour:
A warning scent
framed amply by the silence
saying “stay away…
enter at your own risk…”
And these words–an attempt
to fathom the unspoken
the voiceless–the other half
of the day, which loves
its ambiguity, and will not
be described to a tee
or contained–but sends down
its relentless darkness
like black words
across a page.

This poem
is not for her
and not for me
and not for you;
it happens to be
for that man over there
by the telephone pole
whom everybody sees–
the one whose name
I don’t know
who seems to have nothing
and asks no one
for anything; just wanders
this small town
end to end
looking sad and needy
and all alone
sometimes (often) talking
to himself, as he digs
through bins and garbage cans
finding something–old cups
of coffee and muffin bits
French fries and stale rolls…
This poem is not for her
not for me and not for you;
It’s a poem for him
and however small
and insignificant
I’m hoping
it might
help.

Yet another dawn, yes
and just beyond
the minutes to blue;
sun soon–and
what will we do
with the opportunities…
The poet asks
such reasonable questions
with light still slightly
too young to read
through the remaining leaves–
These scribblings
on the cluttered table
that may become a poem
or a note necessary
to mend a recent fight
about hiking and dining
Or not.
Already in the elapsed time
of this writing, day
has brightened by inches
indicating new paths
and ants in tidy lines
outside, now visible–
the parallel worlds lived
by everything; breathing
consuming, considering survival–
and a figure at the door
pondering whether
there will be enough space
in the alley garbage bin
for one full bag
and if not–
how to make room
for what’s discarded.

Ticking off seconds
counting minutes
like lane division
plastic bumps
hammering out their
staccato rhythm
on the 10 eastbound
whose smog-masked
San Gabriels
bear stern witness;
they know
the slow progress
of evolution
Like being stuck
on a wad of street gum
at 80mph, amidst
fleeting thoughts of money
fame, success & accomplishment
Or being torched, in sum
by the arsonist’s flare gun…
Orange signs warn
of traffic narrowing
from slow to slower still;
the talismanic crimson arrows
indicating where to merge
decelerate, surrender;
And it doesn’t matter
where you go in LA
because–in spite
of everything, you’re always
coming back around.

Something akin
to an Imperious urge
rises within…
like a sap, rarely
named as such;
Getting me up
from a white recline
and over to dust off
paper and pen
to capture the moment;
a certain chill
amidst warmth
the golden light
of fading day
on chaparral–
from yesterday
shadows in a doorway
that are not a stranger
rather–the odd angle;
hard and acute
of December light.
But it is not yet
that month–you are
imagining most
of these instincts
and insights and
everything is
as it should be–
another day has arrived;
too soon
to guess the
outcome.