To U.S. Representative for California’s 28th congressional district Adam Schiff
I see an illuminated bright five pointed star Over the emotional ocean Of black and greasy-greedy oilThe light moving upon this darkness Wavering leaps of sparkling exuberance.This star ascends as the current below moves like the waves of a darkened Depressed ocean. Shall we focus on the star For the exuberance is likeA cleaning soapA detergent affirming justice The Eagle is scrubbed clean.I see an illuminated bright five pointed star I hear the waves of the ocean Calling to break theEagle clean.Returns the rhythm to the rogue wavesI see justice there hearts are buoyantUpon that black and greasy-greedy oilawareness and mindfulnessThe Eagle is scrubbed clean!
My heavenly shower is a sacred place of hot, warm or cold water. It is there for me in worst of times bones ache and chills of fever cleaning a dark soul quality away. I sing, talk and compose there I talk to my medicine animals there and say my prayers. It is an old shower with a whacked head yet the water cleans me inside and out my holy shower that sings me sweet words.
Smörgåsbord of words and feelings… some very nasty…. like me.
“In his late works , he embodied these and other ills in the nightmare ridden figure of the cosmic giant Albion, or universal humanity, who has fallen in to deadly sleep of mundane existence. In humanity’s coma, the divine is a remote and forbidding sky-god: nature a sterile heap of atoms, lovers and family members, enemies; and one’s own innermost being, an unrecognized alien.”
~Blake’s Poetry & Designs ` A Norton Critical Edition.
I realize I am being confrontational, nasty, and outrageous. It is that two-week time as we move into the autumnal equinox. I hate this time of transition, but I love autumn.
Today I had to get gas on the way to where I was going. This local gas station charged me a 30 cents gas fee. Yet this is the normal way to skim the top and make a lot of money off millions of poor people. I remember when gas stations had attendants pour the gas, check the oil, and fill the car tires. It was service with a smile.
I wish one of these monster gas companies would be brave and bring the service attendants back. They could collect the cash and we could give them the service charge… instead of a fucking machine.
Every time we take away a person’s job and replace them with a machine, we become less human.
I went into the mini-market and the cashier, who seemed to be acting as an employee, knew nothing about the fee and said,
“I don’t know why you are asking about it. You are the only one that cares? No one else has asked about it.”
I looked at her silently and squarely.
“You should know about it and all the things around you here. I must pay a fee and it is dirty filthy outside around the gas tanks. I remember the day…”
A man came forward and interrupted our conversation and the cashier looked away.
“Excuse us,” I said.
“We are talking.”
I used a finger to point to the cashier and me.
“Grumble,” said the man under his breath.
I left, telling the cashier she should lose her job for not knowing anything.
Then I came home to find standing outside my home a strange older man smoking a cigarette.
“Are you waiting for someone,” I said.
“No.”
“Then why did you park here?”
The street had no other cars around. He then looked up at the tree. I then asked him to please move his car I needed to park our truck there. He seemed nice enough for not having a reason for being there besides smoking a cigarette. We talked back and forth.
“We have had issues with drug dealers around here.”
He soon left and I moved the truck out. I know I was being ridiculous. I thought it strange that he would get out of his car with his cell phone in hand to smoke a cigarette under our lovely olive tree. I did say to him.
“I don’t like the smell of cigarettes and I am sure the tree doesn’t either.”
I think upon a poem I wrote.
Any time of the year but now it is moving into the Autumn poem.
Green-gold olives
This eve
I take my broom
Last ray of sun is dead here
…it is real…
The shy clouds hide stars
Only the Moon, Jupiter and Saturn shine their breast plates.
I have three books
before me
The Three Little Pigs,
The Three Little Kittens,
The Three Bears.
How many times did I read the books
to my two sons as babies?
I may come out with a little book
called The Three Little Praying Mantis.
I worked for the Visiting Nurse Association as a Home Health Aide in Santa Cruz California back in 1991. I enjoyed helping the elderly, sick and crippled. I comforted them and attended to their simple needs of washing, food, and medicine. I loved their stories they shared. Most of my patients were in their 90s and their lifetimes were filled with a richness that I yearned for. They shared their stores with me.
I will share a story of Mary. She was alone in her parents’ home. A beautiful Victorian home near the shores of Santa Cruz. Only one room was used for Mary. All the other rooms, which were many, were closed off. The stairs that went to her room were something out of the novel Gone with The Wind. And to the right of these majestic stairs was a giant Ballroom with a crystal chandelier where Mary told me her stories. In the room where she lived was a single bed and a small bathroom with bath. On the wall was a painting of a lovely sailing ship. The painting was of her father’s ship. It was a family ship. She told me that she came from a sea family. It was a merchant family business.
As the times changed her family and Mary took to living on the land. She was born and raised on a ship. She knew the ocean well. Standing on ground was difficult for her as a young lady. Eventually she married. Santa Cruz was a cowboy town at the time. She told me one night when her husband made his usual advances towards her. She declined and fell asleep. He went off to the bars to sleep with a prostitute. He gave Mary gonorrhea and after that she could not have any children. It took some time, but she forgave him.
This is a poem about Mary and our walk to her special place. She told me that the wild animals that lived there sometimes would pop up in her toilet. Small rats, squirrels and lizards would sometimes appear. It did not look all that bad to me. Yet, I can only imagine how it once was.
Someone asked me if I was a poet. I said no I am a filmmaker. Yet in truth I am a poet, an underground bard.
While sitting at Kaiser Hospital a man asked me if I was a Poet.
I had on my “Fear the Poet” T-Shirt which I received from the Professor and students from Whittier College with a card after giving a talk about Punk Rock.
I told the man I am an underground bard, Poet. Then he said,
“What happens when you are no longer underground.”
Would you could you
travel miles and miles
for delicious deep-fried
artichoke hearts?
I wanna go to Castervile CA
and eat some deep-fried
artichoke hearts
with spicy mayonnaise.
Near the lovely coastal region
close to Moss Landing,
a fucking pint at The Whole Enchilada
with a shot of hot vodka
with my anniversary man.
Take a walk on the beach
Smell the garlic in the air
mixed with the salty smell of tide pools
under the earthy breaths of
golden-green eucalyptus trees.
Lovely multicolored Monarch butterfly
sweet bites of yellow-white
lemon margarine pie
Pacific Grove embraces
never-ending waves
breathless roller coaster rides.
Would you could you
travel miles and miles
for delicious deep-fried
artichoke hearts?
I wanna go to Castervile CA
and eat some deep-fried
artichoke hearts
with spicy mayonnaise.
Near the lovely coastal region
close to Moss Landing,
a fucking pint at The Whole Enchilada
with a shot of hot vodka
with my anniversary man.
Take a walk on the beach
Smell the garlic in the air
mixed with the salty smell of tide pools
under the earthy breaths of
golden-green eucalyptus trees.
Lovely multicolored Monarch butterfly
sweet bites of yellow-white
lemon margarine pie
Pacific Grove embraces
never-ending waves
breathless roller coaster rides.
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