As the universe forms a rooster tail behind the barge
That plows through mermaid central, pulling away
From the ache of beauty in the eye, of the OC beholders.
It's a right of passage for the passengers, aptly zen,
And writes of passages for me, while the pistons hypnotize
And the waves solemnize all we are releasing, in my case
All that I was, sad chameleon turned zero fool again.
The off-limits portals of San Onofre shine distantly in the haze
Like it's only secret places from now on that will be illuminated.
With this thought the sun shifted, and a dozen secret structures
On the hills start beaconing, beckoning some reckoning I suppose
But I'm bound to bear the past behind, in this palace place
Of particular memories, on this perfect day, of infinite regret
And total redemption. It's all-too-easy to blank slate it
But the blue universe expects its births now not to forget.
Two waves off the stern turn to one proud spiral of foam
And all things can be seen now from either side
But they no longer fight alignment, they let the inevitable
Current pull us on relentlessly — but to which Avalon?
What kind of initiation awaits the mystic sisters and your
Humble scribe? The white sun seems to answer
By scintillating the waves like it was frying bacon.
How much we have to learn, when we know everything.
We sway with the boat. I wear a palm tee shirt.
The waves roll back in charged electric currents.
The spray comes up like Gorgonian fans, to appear and vanish
In an instant, as if the ocean must continually be nourished.
As the island looms, mystic pelicans cross, crystal pyramids
Greet us. The bull kelp come up on the mooring line
As the ferry boat docks. Mist crawls all over the hills
Like giant Pleiadean crabs, the peaks free to simply observe.
The weather turns like the wheel of fortune, whose spokes click
In the harbor gears, and the talk of the disembarking passengers
Who roll into an exquisite postcard picture of a romantic getaway
Comedy movie set taken over by the milling hordes of extras.
Dry land in fact unearths in sepia tones ghosts of well-feted
Hollywood royalty, who came here after the town burned
And linger in the mist as a ghost flicker of our longing
For the trappings of fame, isolation and elegant dancing.
We walk into this history for breakfast, picture perfect ceramic
Cups that seemed to have touched Norma Jean's lips
As Robert Wagner stares at me with a beaming Natalie Wood
From a passe-partout across the booth at Original Jacks,
Roy Rogers singing happy songs about grief and loneliness
As burgers, fries and pies continue like time does not exist.
Over hash browns I heed the advice of the sign above,
"Cowboy logic," by tasting my words before spitting them out.
Mermaids are in full regalia in this cycle's row of shops
Hungry for the docks: Barbie fairies, sea queens on dragons,
Silver and brass green jewelry with abalone siren sheen.
There's even one who plays saxophone on a jazz communiqué.
"Paradise on location" meanwhile keeps its lenses clicking
At the Hotel St. Catherine, where Barrymore tends bar
For Errol and the Duke, Gable and his entourage of girls,
Turning in endless art deco circles in the Avalon ballroom.
A stream of photo-negative ghosts created of tinsel town gowns
From the dreams of picturehouse goers flow to the old casino,
Open to them but not to us, as plus 99% of the island now not is,
But I can see before they disappear how it's just another stage
To never leave, even when they relax in hats on the beach
In those ridiculous old suits. One got flung down the steep stairs,
One was murdered in an insurance fraud, one dove from the aptly
Off-key chimes to the sea, supposedly drunk, supposedly a suicide.
They toast, as ghosts will, at still-massive big band dances
In endless rounds with the drownings and the brown-outs,
Having left their egos at the door, in the lengths one has to go
To flee celebrity, as the green dock tightens its ropes.
The vortices that pulled the dancers here inhabit the boats
Repulsed in lines of force to dance under the conductor's wave.
The opening to Agartha is guarded by these partygoers
Who know the sun can't be transcended if Avalon isn't seen.
There's a green yovaar at the isthmus of Two Harbors, some say,
And the bones of innumerable giants they still won't display
And there's talk of ships that sneak inside the island at night, to a
Galaxy in inner earth as if earth and sky were reversible raincoat.
I can attest the residual energy pocket where time loops like a movie
To keep this vault at 26 miles locked, for what goes on here
Is almost unfathomable, larger than we are ever allowed to know.
Even the sea birds stay away, to contend among the off-shore spray.
How can we imagine so much abundance already inside us? How can I,
Here where I first played the card shark daddy, and walked the plank
Off the winning marlin boat, when Avalon returned no clue to wheels
That turned on me. I saw as much as I was let see, what I let myself.
They say the OSS and its stargate, that started here to fight the Nazis
Closed up shop in 1945, when they closed the old communities:
Catalina Harbor, Smuggler's Cave, Cherry Valley, Iron Bound Bay,
As navy bombing takes neighboring San Clemente out of profane hands.
We are only allowed so much memory, soul fragments to collect
In the ocean's out and in breath, so we remember the Avalon font,
Pimu soapstone barons, the homing pigeon service, flying fish tours,
Kay Kyser and his Orchestra radio broadcasts from the casino.
These must suffice of what we'll know of the future,
What we can make survive with unlimited hearts
Or rise above the pressure at least of our programmed limitations,
The ridges veiled by mist, secret tech and the flags of many nations.
