Quarantine
Like God’s own breath
The flow of life’s bliss
Transcends my singular
Prism of undivided hope,
Like a Great San Francisco
Dream of old Winterland
Jams, high on the tea
And the acid of unrequited
Love that mere patriotism
Cannot touch or curse,
Or sanctify,
And tripping my way down
This golden road
Of unlimited devotion,
I fear nothing,
For in my 1959 VW Bug,
I am indestructible,
In my rusty blue and gray
Chariot, buzzed on beer
Driving in the slow lane
On my way home from
A 1979 psychedelic love fest,
Grateful Dead turned up
Full blast, thinking about
Your little freckles,
In your tied dyed skirt
Barefootin’ along,
And crossing the Bay Bridge
Headed east to the new
Frontier of an east bay
Morning chill,
Onward to Tracy and the dry
Lonely dust of interstate 5
Southbound and all the way
Back to LA and my befriended
High wire act of mythic fame
And chiseled abs,
Then ascending, high above
The fertile valley
Of California migrant hope,
Wind blowing dry
With a grapevine realization
Of pure Steinbeck reverie,
Like a Rose of Sharon
Road to heaven,
Just being the one prophet,
One with the don’t look back
Culture and the great California
Aqueduct where dead bodies
Of sweet-water con men
Float stoically down to Pacific
Ocean estuaries,
After getting stuck in LA river
Side streets and Hollywood
Remakes of Film Noir death,
Finally getting to my favorite
Taco stand on Sunset boulevard
Near downtown,
Corn tortillas thick
With the love
Of an LA Mexican daughter,
I say “one chicken taco please,
I love you,”
“Side of guacamole please,
You sweet baby you,”
“I have boyfriend,” she says,
“I have boyfriend.”
I want to be done with all
San Franciscos,
But maybe not, I can’t decide,
I love the Fog in the summer,
But certainties of dry
And irreverent heat pull me
In south mindedness to all
Southern realities, immediate
And combustible,
Like the words of Shakespeare,
Taken out of the damp
And murky context
Of all my northern dreams,
Cooking in the the mind-freeing
Sound of desert stillness,
Underneath Figueroa street
And Santa Monica boulevard
Burning all that is not me,
Yet remaining
In the finality of my soul
Revealed, my wings ripped out
From under old ideas
Of who we think we are,
And I welcome the death
Of it, I welcome the death
Of incessant craving,
And the polished look
Of indigestible ego.
I wake up every morning,
Make my coffee,
And sit in my favorite chair.
My cat crawls up on my lap
And purrs.
We look out the window together
And he listens to my musings.
I sink deep and almost
Fall back to sleep.
I see neighbors walking their dogs,
The mailman making his rounds,
The grass merges with the sidewalk
And other structures,
The rooftops merge with the sky.
Everything seems connected.
“Do you see the wind, Jack?”
His tail twitches,
His eyes focused.
A heron stands motionless
Like a pause in nature.
Jack and I watch him
As he flies away.
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