It's a rain cocktail on a grey beach
and not a bikini as far as the eye can see.
A lone surfer paddles into a breaker fifty yards away
never acknowledging my presence.
In my diluted ***-banana daiquiri, a cherry floats
wishing she would show to tie it's stem with her tongue;
a talent she once was so fond of showing off.
Gone are the silly days we'd spend here in the sun,
laughing for hours that passed too fast, digging moats
for our castles in the sand.
I guess she'd grown up with the coming of autumn.
My calls went unreturned but
I thought she'd meet me at least one last time.
Now I sit alone on this towel wishing I'd brought an umbrella
as water pelts my shoulders and head like wet bullets.
In a land of perpetual summer,
a day in Malibu never seemed so long.

I let the sky be my tent tonight,
a sparkle-filled indigo field
like a Star Trek transporter.
I swirl the stars with my mind
as my body says, "Energize!".

My destination: points of light,
any one of which could be a hive
of beings living, working, playing
in a mirror of the musings originating
from the sleeping bag in which I lay.

Rolling over to feed my notebook,
a firefly insists on sharing my pen.
Among his friends gathered about my flashlight
is a dragonfly twisting and turning its head
in a display of 360 degree impossibility.

"Do it again!", say my wide eyes,
then I'm shushed by a distant Canis howl.
The trees carry its magic to me like
a powerful totem, making me wary,
reaffirming our instinctual similarities.

Relaxing, I smile goodnight to its echo,
shoo the Insecta from their little electric campfire,
and turn my face again to the Universe
while whispers from a nearby stream
provide a soundtrack to twinkling above.

Gentle air pulls its blanket over me,
while scent of earth and pine
send me dreaming of cosmic fireflies,
blinking their lullaby in rhythm
to the ecosystem powered by my heart.

Places to go, things to do,
        scurrying through a winless race,
        The alarm clock, the traffic: my stimulus.
        I know the drill; pay the attendant, park the car.
        I wait at the curb to cross the street,
        not using the crosswalk is my defiance to routine.

        I wait for the red light and turn to find I don't wait alone.
        Another subject seeming to salivate for the promise of a paycheck,
        yet he seems pre-occupied, impatient, rather than lulled by the day-in, day-out.
        "Late for something?", I ask, knowing I'll get no reply.
        Craning his neck past me, he looks to the left, eyes sharp and intense.
        Then looks right, checking for traffic, as if it's something he's been trained to do.

        First foot raises making him look like a pointer,
        Steps into the street- no wait, one more car- then across he goes.
        He trots to the median; I follow, sure he'll not pause there-
        but no, he waits, again checking left and right for obstruction.
        Satisfied with the lack of cars, he crosses the remaining distance to the opposite curb.
        I bask in my fascination, my day disrupted in a most unique way.

        For a stray dog living on the street, there is more purpose in his step than my own.

A bright summer morn at ten o'clock
is already warm with out-of-school sunshine.
Down the concrete *****
of the manufactured L.A. river,
sits a red shopping cart,
two inches of run-off soaking its motionless wheels.
Empty, it sits in the heat without purpose,
like a discarded Radio Flyer,
no children willing to retrieve it for joyrides through parking lots or
through the shallow water in which it resides.
Even the business for which it was built will never miss it.
It merely waits for a rush of flood water
that will never come,
to wash it away from sight.

A desert night almost as far
from the sun as California can be.
My breath visible in the post midnight air.
I drive north to be closer to the heavens.
Traffic winds slowly upward, a giant, glowing red snake
seeking higher ground.
I find a place to pull off, breaking the daisy chain of cars
looking for a better point of vantage.
Standing in the chill air I didn't think I'd be warm enough,
but soon I wouldn't notice temperature.
Above me, I see the powder of the Milky Way
dusting the night sky.
Nothing else at first, but then - there!
A light, like a flare, but with a tail...like the trail of a roman candle.
Then another, and another - Oooo! Aaaaah! Ooohhh!
It's the Fourth of July in November.
Then it gets good.
The sky opens up a cauldron of molten steel,
sparks spilling over the side onto the earth.
It's ablaze in a fiery rain, trails of white-hot magic
shine and sparkle behind their bright leader, then slowly fade away,
another in its' place before the last is gone.
Never before have I seen the heavens give forth their spoils so generously.
It's as if the Gods were having a clearance sale on wishes, 'Everything must go!'
There's enough to go around.
Stunned and spellbound, I imagine how it must look in the atmosphere,
then I'm suddenly aware of both my insignificance
and my potential importance in the universe.
I am nothing, yet, such a phenomenal display is created
by mere particles hitting earths atmosphere,
so small, so magnificent.
I am awed, I am hopeful, I am alive.

Fierce sharpness of your delicious mouth
splashes my desire.
Hot rivulets splattering dark red
tattooing my dreams.

Sun feigns heat
in a clear slate of blue above;
I gaze upon pale, brown hills and fields
through the smoke of my breath
wishing it would at least snow.

There was talk of cow-tipping
when I was in fifth grade,
but cows would've broken their necks.
Ground covered in frozen grass
is no comfort for fallen cows at 15 Fahrenheit.

Our small lake
transformed into a debating ground for skaters and hockey players,
each vying for control over the weekend's
primary source of entertainment.
(The dreadful alternative: afternoons shopping with parents.)

When it finally snowed, a wonderland was made,
a knee-high, get-out-of-school-free card.
We charted expeditions in corn fields, wooded creeks
and stone-colored barns that were beguiling in the white
of Chadds Ford pastures like untended English castles.

Woods like a Pollack of burnt sienna and white,
their only sound is weight of snow bearing down on limb.
Beyond those whispers, just a roaring silence
when I'm still as ice fingers
trying to touch the ground from the roof.

The cats of Baldwin's Book Barn nap easily within,
as we dig for a pearl amongst makeshift shelves
full of hard-bound reads for snow-bound youth.
These felines, grown, need not the words,
but the pages themselves for fine beds.

A blue-white glow from outside casts a cold light,
illuminating prints of Helga and Christina's World,
a reminder to all who live down the road.
On such a winter day, I didn't care to remember
that soon there would be Spring kittens in the books,
and a lake full of children's swimsuits.