
This is about you
about your long-legged stride and the way you shield your eyes
too light for the orange center of Californian sun
This is about you
it is called; Sorry I don’t see you every day because
if I did I think I wouldn’t care that we both burn
or our former rules and preferences
they were just defenses against the unknown anyway
what really counts, like you say in that dogmatic
tone I find so worldly; The soul it’s all about the soul
of course you are right
and not because you have lived 5 life times
and here’s where you correct me and say darling;
it’s eight incantations thus far
and you put on my accent and make me laugh
as the bog gnaws the bone that came by Amazon
along with my book and if I could
climb into that box and send myself
the version you see
not my own diminished copy
who forgot how to laugh until she ached
I surely would and we’d
buy a Streamliner like you said
hitch it to my track and
take Highway 1 past Carmel
you talking of Hunter S. Thompson
and Henry Miller
me remembering how Anais Nin
wrote; “We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.”
How true, you reply
this is why you and I met
so you could learn to appreciate
the love of mountains and that stillness
in the sea when the sun begins to set
spreading her fingers across diminishing light
like a lover
and by an old cantina we drink
vintage cocktails from a hot water bottle like Some Like It Hot
as fireflies lay thoughts in the air
just as you
self-assured and possessed with a quietude
I find magnetic
roll up your shirt sleeves and
penetrate my hesitation
with your certainty
there is a film reel in my head of us
you’re watching me sleep against the car window
chinks of light hitting my cheeks like
bursts of fire
I’m pretending with eyes closed to dream
wanting you to take
that last distance between us
like the 13 Beaches Lana Del Ray sings of
low and throaty on thirsty radio
as if we were in Patsy Cline country
except we both hate anything
reminding us of then
we’ll make our own now
in the placement of moments
your eyes a question
my mouth an answer
and the photograph of Sandy
staring out against sunlight
her impossibly beautiful breasts
the languid tongue of her Lurcher
imagining his sleep with sun warmed fur
what was she thinking?
all nude and lovely and how do
people born of ordinary circumstance
inhabit her shore
and find their own
abandon in the dunes?
You say you know the answer
just as you seem to know
my making and my depths
and I cleave to you
as the rock erodes against sea
carving greater beauty in
wild grass taking up what was once
submerged
perhaps you are silver
in darkness and your touch
fills me with the laughter
I held underwater these
many years
waiting for an explorer
someone unafraid of
great depths
to find the way
to Big Sur
Like this:
Like Loading...