The clouds
hold the hours hostage
behind a summerwall
of grey; a climate
we expect
but it remains
past noon, all day
like a silent army
at the gates–
massing
reconfiguring
stifling the blue
and brother sun
till there is
nothing left
but an enduring
steely chamber
to consider;
a slate world
in which
not even one shadow
is cast.

In the western
swath of sky
at first morning–
mansions of clouds
where we might live…
to greet the eye
and imagination;
an impossible parade
with smaller dabs
of mist, like stairs
to that kingdom
of love and desire
where we aim higher–
even for the ridiculous
aspiring to these
fleeting residences
of changing shape;
here–a window, there
by the hide and seek moon
a door to go through
to forever–and why
come back from
those places? Wasn’t
it said to “go ahead
and dream” as a kid?
Were they wrong
about living in clouds?
All the silly reasons
for fanciful escapes
that you must see
and even think “Yes!
It’s possible to live
a life like that
In mansions of clouds–
without cielings
lacking walls….”

In death
it turns out
you could love her
but not in life;
The mountains now
with no voices
look on through
their unshaken ages
those lovely sentinels
across another summer
with fog hiding
the near hills
like a lost brother
creeping home
after one wayward journey
or another…the coolness
mixing with warmth
a melancholic scent
of oak leaf
on the damp trail
crushed underfoot
And Life is but
a series of travels
to and from–never
truly arriving
unable to stay put
with sudden night
killing off
the familial conversations
of day–that are left
on the pathway
for tomorrow.

One pink leaf
at the corner
of the deck
called out, at dawn
as if wanting
to be picked up
& collected
as though afraid
of what it meant
to fall from the tree
not even far, at all–
but apart from the rest
where the birds sing
near their nests…
and here, on the deck
as in a desert
gone from mother birth
not quite whole;
alone–for the elements
to take to dirt
and dust; the inevitable
one would guess
unless I picked it up;
brought the leaf inside
which I did–as if
to answer
an earnest plea–
as if, to defy
all else.

In the mornings, sometimes
they’re so damn loud–
Caaaaaw Cawwwwww Caaaawww
Caaaaaaw   WoooooCCCawwwww
Cawww Caaawwww…it’s barely
tolerable, this din, so I grab
handfuls of almonds and throw them
at these boisterous birds…
they look around in their branches
like the sky is raining gourment nuts–
then keep cawing, endlessly…
I stop, because it’s
just all so
futile.

If I’m not mistaken
the greyness seems
about to break
on a day
when summer’s here
and still feels
a world away
The plants in the fields
bending in the mist–
as if to say
“We told you
that you went wrong
so long ago…”
And If I’m not mistaken
those clouds have
a foreboding look–
an ominous imminence
to them, like sparrows
that turned to vultures
in one mistaken look;
the earth as it turns
in perfect order
not made by humans
leaving us options
choices & plentitude–
But I could always
be wrong.

Go cry a little
by the shrine
in the canyon
it’s only rocks, sticks
and bits of collected twine
under a grey
early-summer sky
Then smile, a little
by the shrine;
a simple monument
you built for your mother
whose last words
were “I love you, too…”
Right before
she died.

Hank came at me
across Antioch St.
on a diagonal
straight to my car–
already talking to himself
“Can I have your card?”
He asked–”I want to have lunch..”
“I don’t have one” I replied
and he said he’d call anyway
had something he wanted
to chat about–
I made my getaway
before another sentence
could be uttered
And he angled off
across Via De La Paz
still talking to himself.

Last night
at the Must Cafe
I was having
a stupid conversation
about money–
as to whether
a girl is only happy
if a man “has money”
And Karen (as well as
the hostess)  said
“Maybe, but I don’t think so…”
We asked Kristen, another server
down at the coffee bar by Pete’s
If it was money “that defined the man”
for the girl–and she made
a funny, scrunched up face
looked oddly towards the cieling
and replied “NO–I don’t think so…
But I’m not exactly sure, so…
let me get back to you
on that…” And the fact
that each of the girls
kind of waffled on the question
made me feel that they
were not giving me
a direct answer–
and might even have
something to hide.

A certain
color of sun–
a particular memory
of how the wind
blew once; white
caps in familiar
turquoise crests
a scent of
briny sweet
sea air, like
the breath of youth again–
the way sailboats
appear to angle
effortlessly towards
pure freedom
of afternoon–warmth
in soft blue as
sleepy palm fronds
wave lazy hellos
along the sunny coast
that kind of summer day
when you find
you want something
you’ve never before
desired…