Against the Wind
All horses & homeless folk
go to the beach
when fires rip through California canyons. They run
through surf — against the wind,
away from the flame of the night.
When the choke smoke dies,
they canter home
to campfire stones,
tent poles,
push carts, hoof brush wire, salt
block racks, & spoons.
The flats of certain spatulas.
Not everything unnatural is gone.
In the fortified Getty Museum, Saint Martin
Dividing His Cloak with a Beggar,
The “Piebald” Horse, & Van Gogh’s
Irises are safe
too. Sometimes, I feel less than
a work of art. Like a horse awash
in a wave not a blaze. Like I’m home-free
when the ash is thick
on ground I’ve slept on for months.
Sometimes, I wait for miles of asters,
blue dicks, & desert
pincushions — for an after fire
superbloom — to feel
useful. Created. Though, I know
that’s as unwise as a California breeze
after a decade of drought.
* * * * *
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
Redondo Beach
In some daydreams I know my dad
enough to commit him to the VA
or to a converted storage container
spruced for aging veterans by kindly,
enterprising undergrads.
I can see it now — move-in day!
Sometimes he dies long before commitment:
the Budget Inn guy calls, barks heart attack info,
asks for three month’s back rent,
& I fly in from out East. Sometimes
my eyes glisten.
&, though my faith does not allow cremation,
in these dreams I zap him to ash.
Hold a beachside ceremony. All of IHOP attends —
every breakfast acquaintance.
Salt in their hair. Folded hands. Maroon polyester
abandoned for black business casual.
All his former haunts —
all of Denny’s, all of Chick Fil-A, & some of Budget Inn —
blend in too. Watch me sprinkle him
on the Pacific, like nothing doing. Like dashed hopes
& best intentions. Like smog on skyscrapers.
Like it’s easier
than real life — when I’ll really deal
with his odd body, his final hairstyle,
his undergarments, the set of his jaw. With the plot &
the formalization of
our relationship.