Big Sur

Behold the blue sea-swell

That lifts itself a glass morning

Out of the sea’s heaving breast:

The open ocean wave

That draws itself across the rock reef

Cresting toward the fine pitch

That exhilirates the very air

With a perfect arc of spray

american manhood

This American manhood,
Aren't we just the toast of the earth
With our muscular SUVs
And SuperDuty trucks,
How formidable with our Sequoias
And Rams & Expeditions,
Our testicles hang clear to our knees!
KingCab & Hummer,
A thirty-four-foot fifth wheel!
Don't mess with America
And his gritty-jowled leathernecks,
Finesse?    is flaky flowerpower-
Better left to Belgium & Thailand,
Now get outta my way

one more hour

The whitehaired lady
    singing in her garden
the random stones
    on the pathway to the bakery
a warm breeze
    in magnolia leaves
working at Howard’s--

yes the exstasy of contact
    the joy of cheating death
One More Hour!

those are the wuns

In the larger Matriks
Many get born
Who have no knack for knumbers,
Knelsons, knomenclature,
Nuckleheads who accordingly
Don't propagate.
Those are the wuns who kut skuul
With nothng to warry,
Free to pick daisies by the trax
& Never marry.

-2011

bike ride

     When you get out into these
alder-graced creeks
     Like French Ravine
     On a summer morning
     It begins to dawn on you
that time- as we project it-
is just that, a projexion,
a useful fiction of human culture.
     Here in the warm dappled
shade
     What projexion obtains?
     There is only the trout-dimpled
flats, & the frantic wave
     At mosquitos.

recycle day

An odd creature
In a green vest
Straight from the Monty Halls
         of Darwinisim
Stopped his huge green truck
On our street today
Pointed to the overfilled
Recycle bins
Then to his beat blue bucket
And shouted at me,
"Load 'em up Larry!"

musta been nerves

I'd rehearsed it
a hundred times
in my mind

but when the time arrived
for reality
pure botch-ville