monday morning at the beach high tide

i.

monday morning at the beach high tide 

but almost no surf

waves as high as my ankles

the sun rises higher

peeks into the cove

light spilling down into a pool of sea

a curl of rocks & swaying seagrass

creates a translucent dream in water

chased with bubbles and foam 

like a place i'd assume

a goddess or miss nyad would emerge

so chaste so shy delicately dripping 

ii.

an enclosed getaway seen from the sand

table for two at an open double window

i've never seen it occupied

the rendezvous faces the sea on a cliff

there's art in the walls and cunning signal flags

sometimes they leave an outside spotlight on

it's a sodium arc oldish yellow pointing down

into the void to a spot on the sand 

they might sip tea at dawn's first light

or late in the night eat rare steaks

otherwise it seems like holding space

holding space commanding a sweet view

holding emptiness and being far away 

i am that tragedy and so are you 

iii.

high tide receding with gentle waves

at the place where seaglass has been gently placed

he reeks of cigarettes and marijuana

i wonder if he can smell it

we all reek i assume mine is sweet

to some i surely offend

now that i think about this

all i can do is sense

he faces the sea he takes a selfie coughs

he reeks and the sea reeks

but the morning light is right

near him i find purple sea glass of the rarest kind

under where he stood i find a piece that looks like a crystal

and dogs run free the pristine beach is marked

but no matter while we are away it will redraw

our stink molding somewhere else

and more seaglass but i must go

we all must go

i never had it so good

for instance today

like last saturday

in the morning
i'll buy you a large coffee
and a croissant 

at the french cafe

down the street 

with locals 

and tourists

you won't remember

to ask until we get to 

the boutique just like

every saturday morning 

there's the same plane

flying north and 

the same strong sun

and hint of breeze

then i'll give you

the coffee and croissant

with a zarf on the drink 

& some added cream

i'll drive to the library

just like last time

and get new art books

i tried my whole life

to become something 

like every sports car

i see with the top down

i thought wanted 

what i could imagine 

and there could be

no unhappiness

in plotting

no regret in

gilding the lilly 

no regret dooming

my enemies 

now in this life

i know what 

saturday is like 

every saturday

has nothing to do

with conquering 

or getting even 

settling scores

i see so many

with a distant

look in their eyes

i never had it so good

I want to write a story about how I’m going to remember you

I want to write a story about how I’m going to remember you, in a narrative like Kurt Vonnegut would imagine -- first we pull you magically out of thin air, then we put you into smoke, then vapor, then moisture, we put you into ashes and with a flash you go into an old body that is very still and pale. Under a sheet, then Voilà! You breath and you spend a few days visiting and then from time to you stay in different hospitals always getting a little bit better, stronger, more clear eyed. You tell stories, you help friends. Then as the years go by you get younger and younger, have a happy marriage and interesting career starting as a know it all but always learning something new every day. Giving up knowing it all, all along, finding one laughs more. Admiring waterfalls, mountains, rockets and rodeo queens. A fast car. Bunches of roses for lovers. Dreamy nights. Bright stars. Becoming thirty then twenty then teen, running and jumping and laughing and finding a crush then school, home, mom and pop in brighter and ever tightening circles, dawns and starry nights, orchards and field, your favorite dog, you’re small and fast and you sense the rhythm of all little things like waving strands of grass and polliwogs in the creek and you’ve got your blanket and then soon you’re being held close, everything amazingly given to you, now in such a safeness you don’t know where you are you’re in solace that gets bigger and bigger and even more peace, a humming and thrumming, until these definition between you and bliss becomes totally moot and even irrelevant.. sweet motion until there’s no sound no dark no light not taste touch thought or sensation, no self and no not self … just bright and aware and full of a seeing, wise delight without any boundaries that goes on beyond infinity and hope and fear


For Jerry Thompson
1935 - 2025

it is like being in a new world

it is night

i feed the neighbor's cats

they are on vacation

i have a key

i go into someone else's

apartment

i try not to pry or look

around

they have the old electric

stovetop we wish we had

i feed the cats to the

specified amounts

it seems to be quite a bit

for just two cats  

but that is what they say

they want for the cats 

when i'm done i wash 

the cans and the fork 

i still try to not let

my eyes roam around

when i go out and

lock the door

i stand with my back

to the apartment 

and i just stare 

at the courtyard

for about three minuets

it is like being in a new world

imagining they see this

view all the time 

into my day

into my day

a struggle 

or a battle

oh god let

it be neither

of these

let my day be

clear and free

light as a feather

with only good

intentions if 

i let it be

"Was that you lingering in my peripheral vison?" I ask Chung Tzu.

"Was that you lingering in my peripheral vison?" I ask Chung Tzu.

"Was that you trying to not be seen? Sulking about?" says Chung Tzu back. 

"I feel burned!"

"You are not fire, not of fire, around fire, in fire. But even with fire, or no fire, there is no burning. Look to the ashes."

I stop and I give him a sincere bow. Chung Tzu grunts in agreement.

---

New Years Eve

2024

getting things wrong

getting things wrong
but because of my errors
my sin
i have a chance to make it right 

*

of forever

god the sculptor
chipping away parts of stuff 

flaking bits of me too in the way 

of forever

(he keeps smiling at me

so i'm not scared)

A Kind of Whimsy, Too

 "It is funny how I keep trying to leave here, and just then something different will come up every time and stop me. It is like I am in a dream, or in a coma in a hospital but I don't know I am unconscious." I said and everyone there smiled at the way I said that -- how familiar that would feel & how it was also a bit of a dramatic statement, but it had a kind of whimsy, too. We all smiled, even the ones who had animal heads, and then I woke up. 

But He Hoped Not

He was up before the sun came up. 

At the car dealership, while he was waiting for the brake job to be done, he noticed a woman had little buckles on her shoes, or slippers. 

Someone answered a phone. The dealership would be closing at 2PM, because it was New Years Eve. 

He heard a car salesman in the other room talking to a prospective customer: 

SALESMAN

What kind of vehicle were you thinking about? 

CUSTOMER

Well, this would be for my girlfriend ...

SALESMAN

I see! What kind of car do you drive? 

CUSTOMER

A Nissan Altima.

SALESMAN

Nice. Blah blah blah blah blah. 

He couldn't see the people talking. He wondered if the girlfriend was there too, just quietly standing there while the two guys talked, but he hoped not. 

he said

he said 

you don't have to give up to give up

or to know to know 

possess or not possess

for the purpose to grow

then he laughed 

*

for disordered sake

i hear an owl
i hear the TV in the next room 
i hear the cars on pacific coast highway 
i hear our loud neighbors 

it all mixes together 

when i don't focus on it 

and on combining 

it makes sense

taken all separately

it all is so different 

it sure proves you can

have maximum disorder 

for disordered sake 

*

onto the next thing and worrying about getting there

last night i was taking the garbage out

and after i tossed it i forced myself to look at the stars

because i'm tired of just passing through everywhere i go 

onto the next thing and worrying about getting there 

*

i hoped everything was calm

i hoped everything was calm 

that the universe was serene

but i saw a photo of jupiter 

close up and it is a boiling crucible  

super massive clouds billowing 

with nowhere to go or get out of the way

if any life is there & if it could see out

the earth must seem so calm to them 

**

then angels work these and we tremble

often working with dream mechanics as i sleep
god the foreman directing repairs 
on parts of the universe producing 
rainbows of right and wrong good and bad 
though god knows best we will disagree
but in the end i follow what is suggested 
the stars fly out under the working on the line
places people and things like stars too
you can’t see it when you are awake 
but we are like a golden mist risen over fields 
then angels work below us and we tremble

**

people like us end up here

living by the ocean

in a little town 
much of it is unreal

but i know that cave sand 

is different than sea sand 

as the small and big cars

full of ideas go up and down

drivers laughing some yelling 

all of us compelled with 

wild kinds of longing

like waves hurled onto rocks

smashed but then swirling

falling back in disorder

but the retreat is temporary 

gathering for another rush

naturally trying again 

because water is water 

ocean is ocean and rock is rock

a great lunge and result

over and over again 

just because and it can 

people like us end up here 

----

crecent bay

12.30.24

most of my favorite writers didn't want what i think they wanted

 i promised myself i'd write 

"100 posts" this year and i wrote but only a few were posted

     there's a handy folder with NOTES

     written on it with a snow of scraps of paper inside

then i ride my unicycle on pacific coast highway 

and think about novels that could be written 

this writing becomes riding and people

become my short stories we both inhabit 

     when i ride against traffic and cut across a lane

     and almost get hit my fault that is a poem 

then i think about all the lies of perfection 

the hype of exceeding or breaking out like a fame comet 

all the problems that comes with it and how sometimes

i'd like to try it out anyways 

but i think getting riding more and more as my writing 

and seeing what happens 

most of my favorite writers didn't want what i think they wanted 

and if fame came along it seared them 

i promise to be better to myself / rather than to just think i should be thinking art

occasionally i catch myself looking in the mirror

as if in askance 

with something to say 

but i find there is nothing -- just a strange face

the moment collapses around itself 

almost like a soufflé

when i walk away i wonder if all that 

is really true 

i always have something moving around

turning and planning

but why the pauses and the sudden looks 

not even the scribbling of notes

it it like going to the ledge to take a picture

and having no film in the camera 

but doing this on purpose 

i promise to be better to myself 

rather than to just think i should be thinking art

or murdering delightful ideas by being blank

when i choose to look