Cali. and me.

 

 

 

I had heard that California

had burned to the ground. That through the cinders,

the fine granules seen in the cross sections

of the virion

 

helicopters dropping bales of water

like a hawk letting go of a pigeon

she refused to eat.

 

Over and over the light by an arc made.

Teacherly, in that sort of olympian way.

Clay, as my father called him,

 

still trembling in 02 (which we refused

to see thru); the sudden ardor of youth

is the wine we drank. The architectural

 

quick feet shuffle. The rope-a-dope

delirium of frenzied fiend strata. Then a man

lay still. His eyes wide open but dreaming

 

of a sudden shining. A hot calm. Sandy beaches,

volleyball and little dogs running thru the  shoals.

I had wondered was a wolf burned out, an owl family?

 

From my back window, I heard the firebomb thrown.

Saw the carnage, the Red-Cross vests. The sirens.

Heard they owed the dope man money.

 

Which are the astronomical fires

of another poem.

Reviews

[Tree]

Did I? just get rope-a-doped, here? A fantastic array of imagery that led me to another birth. A final, subtle, beautifully sad one. It feels like a good movie that leaves you hanging, but you don't get angry... There was more than enough given to stoke, and rage This imagination.

Well done, brother.