Bruce Fisher

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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The views and opinions expressed throughout belong to the individual artists and may or may not coincide with those of the other artists (or editors) represented within the magazine. Hobo Camp Review supports a free-for-all atmosphere of artistic expression, so enjoy the poetry, fiction, opinions, and artwork within, read with an open mind, and comment wisely. Thanks for stopping by the Camp!