SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO

As I drive up the coast,
I see the little sparrow bodies
through the fences that line
the freeways. The crucifixion
of their brass-colored wings
still haunt.  The mission
is miles behind me by now
and Los Angeles is nowhere in sight.
What should I be thinking of 
as the swallows return
this time, or as I drive, or as the clouds
roll past my car as it hums?
Only Jesus, it seems--with
his cool, hippie beard and his
ancient, hallowed name--
comes to mind, though I suspect
he has also been left behind,
near the mission,
choking as he does
on the dust we become
and the pungent tang
of my Buick's black exhaust.

AS I LEAVE (WIP)

What is left but the choosing?

The suitcases are packed

and sit by the door, 

the cupboards are empty, and

the lights illuminating

the way have been switched off.  

When I leave here,

I want to drive through the sun,
head south, and smile as  

my fingertips cut through

a insouciant freeway breeze.

But as I leave, I think
that I'd like to end up at a place

where silence, like a painting

reminds me of art.

When life is a moment 

to be worshiped.

Where peace sings

like a concert, 

where stillness 

is a near silent tune
in my vulnerable heart.

A LYRIC FOR THE O.C. (WIP)

This isn’t the first time

I’ve seen residential America

With its shingled roofs

A/C vents, garage doors,

skateboards, scooters, 

golden arches, and a 

a garland of grey smog

ringing the edge of the

Horizon like a scar.

I will 

once again

feel for all

the stories out there

the men and women working

their shit jobs

the burger joints

hawking double patties

and fries 

with or without cheese

to simulate choice

To people who just

want to sustain themselves

long enough to reach

and bed and sleep

The zombie-like children

riding their bikes

Through the angry traffic

their entire childhood

nothing so much

as a litany

of near misses, 

whether on the road

or behind the closed

doors of their suffocating

greenbelts.

And there it all is again

this morning--

An SUV pulling into a

palm-treed driveway

a straw-hatted gardener

using his leaf-blower

to clear away

the angst of the existential

debris

A teenager looking out

a bedroom window

wondering when will life 

begin

blissfully unaware

that, in fact,

it already has

SO VERY MANY GHOSTS ON THIS STREET*

Like the teenager
white-knuckling her house keys
while the boy who adores her snaps
her picture by the brick wall
so he can add the photo later
to the shrine he keeps back home.

And the producer whose house
looks out over the valley
that, at night, fills with stars so
luminous he is able to count each of
the blinking red, white, and blue
lights of the city
that lie beneath his window
like some priceless Persian rug. 

And the schoolgirl who finds herself
swinging higher than ever before
on the metal swings of 
the playground, telling secrets,
sotto voce, to her wiser, older self. 

And the unrequited lover
who pushes his broken
car even this much closer
to the house of his beloved
just so he can ring her bell,
ask her mother if he can use
the phone to call his parents.

It’s late, he says, quite
sheepishly, and I am
just so far from home.

*draft number 11 or 12 

JENNY

You were the tough one.

Nothing sensitive for you, ever,

just legs apart, feet grounded,

dukes up, always ready for fight.  Never

sharing even the tiniest bit

of your heart with anyone.  And still,

when I heard last winter

that your husband rode

helmetless, lost control,

and died on an Arizona highway,

I longed to say something

soothing to you, something

graceful, even though we hadn’t spoken

for years.  But the right words didn’t come,

as they never do at

such a time and so your husband

ascended

in the gray mist of our regrettable silence.

Yesterday, though, I posted a few

lines of another poet's thoughts about death,

(though more about life)

and you laid bare

your grief in the comments section

and I responded. And in that small acre

of cyberspace we made up for

that sad chasm between family.

And I hoped it made you feel better.

I realized this morning, however,

that the true success was that I’d made you

read some poetry, something you never

would have done in the old days.

Someone more gifted in words than I am

finally made you think about this humorless joke

we call life and was able, in the end,

to share some words

that if we’re lucky, made you

feel just a tiny bit better

as poetry is wont to do.