Low Flying Jets (from Red Book Poems)

Sitting in the open-yawn wilderness

of Nebraska thinking about crust-eyed

Venice Beach California, low flying jets

behind mists over the violent gray

shoulders of the invincible

                             Pacific.

What rules apply?

             Hard to tell.

             Nose to the grind of it

             perilous world down

             under it ready to

             swallow us up

             when the time comes.

More bones for fields.

So now a low flying jet-roar soft deep

                   hum/boom

vibrates the Nebraska ground underneath

          the lawn chairs

          reminding me of that

          Los Angeles coast

                               line

back when I thought the L.A.

               vision was real

               betrayal and

               hell-cold murk

               in those splintered

                        doorways

               nets cast off to be

               fishers of souls

               and the angry heat of

               a summer city

               swelter

               heat huff dry

               engine groan

               underhood

                gas pedal down.

AM radio talk shows in the

          intensified dream

          of American highway

          interstate

cold bone light rest stop flicker

                                      buzz

moths senseless fluff

                 poof collisions

                 with light bulbs

                 like humans

                 colliding with

                 dreams of

                 stars.

After nightfall a thunder

of fireworks blossom in the east, untangle

themselves in spider leg sky

blasts of sparks, BOOM-A-THOOM WOOSH

                                    CRACKLE.

Humidity slows the gibraltarian smoke

plumes cast aside like

                    a used up net

(fisher of souls).

Wind blows open the back

kitchen door creak then

walk over, thud it closed

               gently lock.

Ash sings to our three month old

          Jesse backed by

          the stove top light

          brightly casting long

          fuzz shadows

          across the kitchen

                             floor.

He stares up at her face giant

       luminous blue watery

       eyes, having just completed

       a 9:30 PM

       bath - comfort

       now on her lap

                sing lulled to

                 heavy lidded

                 doze then

                  sleep.

‘Hinky dinky parle’ vous’

Somehow reminds me of how the

Texas night closed in on me in

2006 on my way to San Antonio

pulled off to the side of the road

           (specific wide shoulders

              built  along the infinite

              stretch of Texas highway

              like a rest stop minus

              the state funded

                 buildings)

awoke in terror fright pitch

black night outside every

window of the car and not

a single sound of nearby

interstate traffic or

yawn of distant motion,

            just an absurd

            breeze carrying with

            it possibilities I

            had no interest in

            and gunned out

            of there with super

            natural fear slamming

                     my heart.

No morning mists in that June

of 2006.  Arid palmy sensual aired

            San Antone,

            untouched pulpy

            green vines and

            nodding palm

            trees.

- - - - - - - -

(May 25-26, 2013)