Two
lanes winding
out of desolate coast
lined with sheer cliffs
flat gray drops
into sheetmetal patina sea
cliffs topped with scrub
and bush and wild grasses
wildly rioting at roadside
or freshly mowed and baled
like a KS wheatfield.
Little towns of Davenport
Pescadero, Half Moon
Maltera and Venice Beach
“Where’s the sunglasses?”
Even San Pedro (park)
“Am I going south or north?”
Pass a gutted and wind-blasted
concrete shell of a house—
it has no access
no explanation
just stands on the
weathered pedestal of sandstone
perched on top of a hill
over-looking Half Moon Bay.
This stretch
winding
up to the outskirts
of SanFran’s suburbs
leads a caravan
away from the isolation
of the rugged coastline
and into Daly City’s “little
boxes” made of ticky-tack
once a novelty
now the common
denominator.
Excerpt from On/Off the
Beaten Path
Fragments
as if the world is glimpsed
through a broken mirror—
A mosaic of shattered moments
sewn together ala the patchwork
quilt of memory:
At a gas station in Newberry
Springs Regis Philbin drones
while I buy my first tank of gas
outside L.A.
Nearby
a solar collector station
patiently absorbs sunlight
—magical
conversion near Barstow
land of maroon hoods and freight yard’s clang.
High desert rolls off
into the great beyond
rolling up to the base of
burnt igneous rocks
as if swept by ancient sirocco
brooms as if (no carpets
available) ancient sands
from old Route 66 became
fill for jagged volcanic arroyos.
Clusters of rock the color of dried blood
thrust up through this high desert sandbox
like broken teeth on an
upturned jawbone
as if here, the earth is
a battered skull or some part
of a skeletal geology
exposed
to weather.
Magma fingers
stubbed and broken
reaching skyward
surrendering to sun’s
indifferent attention.
Interstate 40
Modern highway
four lanes
twice the convenience
of the Hillbilly Highway
Ancient Route 66
the once and future link
Chi-town to EL LAY
two lanes of history
two lanes synonymous with the romance of
THE ROAD
Kerouac
On the Road Again
Bobby Troup
Get your kicks on Rte. six six
Wanderlust
See the USA in your Chevrolet
James Dean
Airstream
Motel 6.
Route 66
shadows I-40
two lanes of cracked
asphalt that keeps
coming back to
haunt the memory
as visions of simpler times
return again and again
Route 66
like some prehistoric
tar-encrusted
Loch Ness monster
appearing out of
desert wilderness
to dog the trail
of I-40 and spook
the traveler with nightmares of
less than a quarter of
a tank of gas and
“next services 55 miles”
Route 66
asphalt serpent
snaking from Barstow
to Needles
through Kingman
to Flagstaff
past Gallup
to ABQ and on
to Amarillo
and Oklahoma City beyond
(where 168 chairs wait for no one).
A red line on the map
cutting into the sandy bottom
of this long-dead sea bed
this forsaken geography
of pulverized rock fields
fossilized trees
lava fields and sandstone.
Unchanged.
Timeless except
for the whimsy and folly
of the Land Lord:
man.
A train moves across the
desert like Morse Code—
dots and dashes heading
south towards Amboy
all washed in muted hues of desert
grays and greens.
Needles flashes by like a junkie’s promise.
Colorado River cuts a lazy swath
twisting gently towards Baja and
Sea of Cortez.
Crawling uphill towards AZ proper
Ocatillo whips in bloom
Holy Moses Wash
Andy Devine Parkway
Shinarump Avenue
CB World.
Sandstone slab walls
retaining hills older than dirt
Kingman traffic jam session
(twenty cars) – deserted road
suddenly crowded with urgency.
Fractured lava caps
sandstone cliffs
red and stoic as if
Indians wait to charge down
on hapless wagon trains along
Interstate Forty
ala John Ford western epic.
Climbing now, eyeball to eyeball
with red-tailed hawk
and sore-assed snowbirds
migrating north for the summer.
Five thousand feet of
blue sky spreading wide
like smile on mother of
prodigal son
then sudden puff of
single cotton-tail cloud
drifting lazy
across vast and holy blueness.
Excerpt from RoadKill
The
desire to get off to a good start
Is the root of all superstition
Yet here I am having second thoughts
Every other second about this trip
One that I made fourteen years ago
In a ’54 Chevy ¾ ton flatbed
Without a care in the world
And nary a worry in my head
Or the one I made in ’77 in
That ’63 Rambler American
The one with the bad
Throw-out bearing and the
Bob Jones University sticker
On the rear window
Of course I was younger
Then and less tied
Down to whatever I’m
Tied to now
Still
For weeks leading up to this
“Jaunt” that little voice
in my head keeps muttering about
an impending danger…
OUT THERE
Like a hushed whisper in church
OUT THERE
Be on your toes
Baby be on your toes
Like Westside story
Something’s coming yes it is
So I packed my car with
All the accoutrements
Of a traveling poetry road show:
Books catalogs flyers
Clothes sleeping bag
Food water music cameras
Maps tools new tires
Loaded for bear or whatever
And headed to the ‘jump-off’
A reading on Tuesday night in
Beautiful cracktown
Tujunga CA at the public library
Clear across town from
My beautiful cracktown
Of Long Beach and under a
Pale moon rising pink and
Full into a sweltering Indian
Summer night found myself
At a reading that no one
Save one brave soul
(Thank you Chris)
Bothered to attend
“I don’t understand it
We always have a good turnout
For these readings”
I have heard this too
Many times to even worry
About it should I tell
Her that I never draw a crowd
Couldn’t draw a crowd even
If I jumped off a building
Into noonday pedestrian lunch hour
After waiting for forty minutes
We declare the corpse cold
And head off into the night
The host and audience go home
And I north
