All of them white
My what the day brings --
PTSD in the morning
At the thought of being WPP'ed as a local
Authority, and forced at lens point
To snap the Beach City vs. Library dustup
Librarians clinging like Leprechauns
To rainbows while gritty beach city mothers
Nail petitions of fetid notice
On the boardwalks and wide California streets
Of their fine, unconsulted city --
If Nathanael only saw the kid on the bike
Under the red white and blue vote YES sign
He'd send protesters down himself in hopes I'd
Catch another rainbow over the parade route
But I know how this spun cotton candy ends
In separation between the have-nots and nots
Both all bent up in knots ... libraries relevant?
Androgyny codified? For schoolkids who,
As Bob Guccione said to Jerry Falwell, don't
Get exposed to enough pornography anyway.
But the flag will wave on without me, I'm done
With fun with food, festivals and fairs
And who knew that Norco was on the same road
Running its horses through every storyline,
Including this one, where I drive past Claremont,
Where California cool was created as a creed,
And the strange new Tesla factory near Mt Baldy
To an Aldi's at the top of the hill, to be back
In the saddle and to at last know what that means,
A Crates endurance saddle, to endure California
Its refusal to choose, for us, which adventure to fall into,
With a basketweave tuling from the same family
Like a brand, like the words that came out of her mouth,
How she would have no use for it since she rode
Wild mustangs, trained inmates to imprison them
In fact as I captured a Saddleback ago in the funny pages.
She was happy for Aunt Betty in Phelan, how pleased
She'd be, to be relieved of one saddle from a sad plenty
To a good home, she'd hadn't been good or herself lately
Or pleased as my Aunt Betty in Phelan would be
To see me.
The freeway fell down in the cinder skies, as it rode
Through the evening purples, Beach Cities,
Such hope, gave the sign, that I can sit still finally,
In a craftsman bungalow with a blue 69 microbus
Digging in tie-dye the gnarlies as heaven releases its grip.
The roads are holy here. The portals we can go through
Are just better than the ones we can't.
Strangers meet in Rancho Cucamonga and call it a life,
Why can't I? The sky has cleared, to perpetual Venus
And the ladle that holds the cosmic soup.
It's a Special Edition can of Campbell's Truth, one Andy
Warhol hadn't, yet, approved.
