Teen’s Wet Dream In The Sun

There’s grass and flowers blooming

in Magnolia park

And this absent minded feeling

while the sky grows dark

Lily pads and grapefruit

growing in the yard

Fences form a fortress

full of dull remorse—

You left me standing idle

like a broke down car

Listening to Layla

watching shooting stars

Visions of Johanna

all just fell apart

Romanticized by healing

and those tarot cards—

Now I’m drinking nightly

at an empty bar

They gentrified the valley

and closed the bodega

I still see you smiling

from the bedroom floor

Hailing that taxi

with a broken arm—

A tincture of illusion

pressed beneath the tongue

Awakens the compulsion

to hold a smoking gun

There’s two sides to the story

I’ve got another one

The party’s in the distance

Teen’s wet dream in the sun

Southbound towards Tijuana

The way it was and

the way I saw it well

neither really aligned,

which is why I guess

perhaps, I suppose

I’ve made it this far driving

Southbound towards Tijuana

watching my dreams fade

in the rear view mirror

knowing now the utopia I sought

was never bound to be orthodox

or American, or not but

foreign enough to appear genuine,

parked by the halogen glow

of another lone motel, stale air

and stained sheets of a

dystopian relevance

that makes this all seem o.k.

A Chipper Monk

Chipmunk on the hillside.

Perhaps Spring greetings

or conversation with a friend.

Cat and Mouse

Two squirrel play

a fun little game of cat and mouse.

Both scurrying up the tree,

diving face first from branch to branch.

Like little cannons they shoot

back and forth between tree limbs.

One wagging it’s tail, the other

feigning ignorance, like two lovers

they quarrel, never knowing really

who’s cat, and who’s mouse.

Or what started all this in the first place.

Footnote: to Regardless of the election.

For the majority of my adult life I have lived in impoverished communities, mainly because it’s what I am able to afford. I have seen, felt, and heard the cries of both men and women, alone in gutters, pulling the arms of children onward to a life not many of us will ever lead. Some of course have made choices leading them down this path, others are facing hard times, but I see the majority of them, just as I see myself, as I see my loved ones, as common people. So regardless of the outcome of an election, regardless of the winning or losing side, I still see many men, women, and innocent children who will continue to suffer either way. I do my best to spare what little I have to offer, be it a dollar or two, a bottle of water, or even a smile which seems to go even further than the former because at least they know that they are seen, and like so many of us often feel, we like those less fortunate are not forgotten. So just be a decent person, treat people with dignity and respect, regardless of their current standings in life. Do what you can to leave the world a better place than it was yesterday. And be well, my friends. Be humble and aware. And give more than you receive, when possible. With love, gratitude, and thanks to all who’ve graced my path, and who I continue to think of daily.

Golden

Tree lined
suburban, shadowed
street signs
stand aloof
in the quiet morning
daylight gloom
of happy homes
opened doors
and kisses. Questions
fall like flower petals
on sidewalks, cracked
by ancient roots
whose planted hands
can only tell
the difference between
early mornings
and daylights answers.
But the sky is new,
and the desert
Golden, only as old
as the moon which hangs
still as the sun
does rise over broken
glass bottles, which dress
Winnetka, asphalt
like a torn evening gown
come morning.

the LA river

Looking at the LA river

now, smelling it

more than I can see it.

There’s a pigeon

down there, drinking

down there, bathing itself

in whiskey and piss—

probably blood even.

Who knows really?

It could be the purest water

in the world, but I guess

only a choice few

will get the opportunity.

While the rest of us

get coffee, Dasani

and whatever else

man feeds the birds.

L.A. River

Topanga

Halogen yellow bursts

of light, turn signals

burn bright, through

white lines of Topanga

Morning sunrise, her and I

up all night, we rise

like silhouetted tree

under the belly of LA sky,

gaze upon a sea of fog

clouds, shower faint

hallucinations of

spontaneous future

Travel

October. Topanga Beach