save for the long distance rumble of the interstate,
the mainline,
the coursing soul of southern california.
crows in the palms rustle from time to time in their midday slumber.
ocean air surrounds,
thick and cool,
somehow able to set a chill to the bone,
even at 50 degrees.
days in san diego are spent,
winding against sublime inertia,
i remember it well,
it fits like a sweet smell
and the last second of calm that settles around your ears just before sleep.
years here were a dream of becoming,
and in the same way,
seemed so tangible upon immediate exit,
as solid as the trunks of trees,
as clear as water.
but the years since have seen a drift,
to different waters,
currents pull and tides and swells rock the sorrowed hull
back into and off of the jetties and shores,
bent against wind,
anchor long gone,
never a moment to rest at the helm
or a second to take the eyes off the horizon
for want of a glimpse of the ends of the earth.
reason held that we were just circling the globe,
but our hearts said that if we did it enough times,
we could unravel,
unwind,
the heart of the world
and set us all teetering
into the space
that is left in between the cracks
when it all falls apart...
things get better, which is fine.
things get cleaner, which i have heard is necessary.
things get safer, less and less happens,
which keeps us alive and well save for this.
the magic walks hand and hand with the grit.
reason works.
sense is fine.
the grit is better.
it makes more sense than sense anyway.
the grit has possibility.
nothing could happen.
so could everything.
bricks and fences can only hold up for so long.
when they give, the grit will come tumbling back in,
angels and devils will have back at thier war and sublime embrace,
and the reasons will evaporate with the ghosts,
sense will run like a man on fire,
and we will dance and sing with the gods,
as the whole thing comes to a screaming halt
shot out the end of a cannon.
oh, what a fine mess it will be.