Wednesday 1/23/2013

Beginning in bed, dream shred (fulfilled
social obligations, party time)
                  my eyes mark the weather
cue for survival:
timesheets, paycheck, meds
sick thermostat         Black Spring
if you say so, you surly writers...

"Words are Whole Afternoons," woe is 
Wednesday, Wodin's
kennel. And now, and now...

In Surf City Cafe, facing the windows
next to the espresso flag
facing traffic on Hwy. 1, cars and semis
                          becoming headlights
                                moving toward Watsonville
                          and points north
la la la lalalala la on the soundsystem, I 
am correcting your comma splice

Light raindrops on the windshield
as I drive south to Castroville
and through the small town's
streets
         taquerias, panaderias, the Clinica,
Central Texas BBQ, Norma Jean's, Michoacan Meat Market,
Thistle Hut and Giant Artichoke, barber pole,
Yepez bookeeping
         and the black fields on each side
         of the highway, stretching east
         and south, past Soledad prison, fallow;

the crops will come
the tractors and harvesters
workers to drive them, 
to pick thistles and kale.         
                            
It seems I've never been
from anywhere but here
                            

Random lines from my bookshelf:

Open the hand that racks
cinder from a nesting of hovels, the cardboard
city where bread is never warm and
memory lines the alleys in a windsuit of denim.

---Lorna Dee Cervantes, "Untitled," from Drive: The First Quartet