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Two Poems from One Southern California Concerto After Another
2nd Movement
from outside foaming areas of disclosure
remember all the crisp summer dawnings
under awnings of an independent market:
Roy’s Fair-Mart: the intersection of
Foothill & Lincoln
through foaming air (pre-smog) the morning
headlines were always tossed in the form of the
Pasadena Independent towards the porch of an
Altadena pre-war white-frame bungalow: with,
I think, pink trim & often the tabloid missed its
penultimate front porch destination
now, of course, I only have eyes for draped
accessories waving & covering French windows
which somehow, through these foaming years,
never lose their accent: par tout yeux nous
couper et ecumer*
*There are eyes everywhere cutting through the foamy waves— Charles Baudelaire
III
what these foothills left us got
lost in the dark. now time goes
around a corner without
signaling for a right turn. we
get into some wonderful ruts
and oh by the way watercolor
days subside in arrangements
of momentary shrubbery. as we
might imagine all polished walls
of Angeles Crest Hwy guard rails
notwithstanding admit birds of
incredible transgression and
inhale natural nature along
with fearful rudiments of new air
without decency. we encountered,
once, an imitation of fog and
wondered what the daylight ether
would demand or will. if we had
learned to invent vineyards, the
loss of oranges wouldn’t have been
able to surround us. an autumn car
jolts by and its cruel fuel yells in our
eyes. one time we thought various
industries might mean those we
feared would feel a bit more tender
towards us. not anymore! any
remnant of the light that prevails
upon dark Mt. Wilson signals is
impossible now. KTLA no longer
shines in bright eyes of artistry: no
longer speaks into ears of similar
enlightenment: and, as if a conspiracy
of ignorance attacks it, the warm heart
of memory breaks.
Yuba River / South Fork
First of all, there’s this wind: acrid beast
devouring small animals of clouds. The
river’s charge is like Switzerland
exploding. Speak to me out of Auburn
snowstorm silence. you wanted, once,
to hold Kenneth Patchen’s book: Cloth
Of The Tempest, under the icy ridges
so your hands could remember baseball
and other country games; yet, now, your
voice is quiet, as this cement-mixer mist,
in winter, is, sometimes. Look what’s
grinding off a gall of mauling slush. It is,
perhaps, in some way, a very different sort
of underworld mood swing spitting and
swearing at a God nobody prays to.
Donner Pass: 1976
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