The only thing I learned
In this ocean of stars
Is that I can drown anywhere

We were startled by the rain
we weren't used to it
the pit pat, pit pat, pit pat

We were startled by the rain
such a long drought
pit, pit, pit, pat, pat

We were startled by the distant thunder
we had been shaken by quakes
but no thunder, not in months, perhaps a year

We were startled by the lightning
its white flash sparking fear and awe
zipping through the sky

Pit, pit, pat, pat, pat
Pit, pit, pat, pat, pat
Flashes and shakes

We are startled by the rain
we aren't used to it
the pit pat, pit, pat, pit pat

Slender eucalyptus trees form a fragile trellis
Welcoming you into a land of enchantment
Wandering asphalt stippled with afternoon light
Leads you through vast vineyards striping distanced hills
Their branches drooping with plump purple droplets

Following the single road curve after curve
A bend brings a browned tipped fade edging every vine
Half a tree’s round bowl cut shows a dip dye border beige
Ominous foreshadowing of the landscape’s angry scars
Lurking ahead the winding way amongst the chartreuse charm

Then one twist brings the astounding view
Land licked clean by ravenous tongues
Heat and wind --the insatiable elements
Their appetites consumed whole hillsides at once
Leaving behind blackened branches: bones ****** bare

Ochre tipped foliage studs the rolling ravines
Exposed bedrock stares back at you with ravished eyes
Surrounding elevations graced by green clouds of resilient oaks
Enunciate the stark boundary between
Devastation and lively exuberance

Canyons once dressed in elaborate emerald garments
Now clad in scandalous shreds
Reveal the ripples of ancient fault lines
Testimony to their violent origins
Forged by gaping crevasses, quakes and flames

Solo skeleton shrubs stand adorning
Charred hillsides like chewed and spat gristle
Puddles of white ash and their dusty rivulets
Hint at feverish efforts exhausted in defense
Of the crumbles at the feet of lone chimneys

Naked trees cut from winter landscape
Appear misplaced in the summer heat
They stand forlorn with gnarled arms and curled fingers
Their writhing immortalized in stiff post rigor
An involuntary inhale touches your lips. “magnificent”

The scourged scenery fades with each bout
You are surrounded by sun kissed hills
Their slopes end in brilliant blue water
A promise of peace reflected in still reverie
Mauve mounds guard the serene sanctuary

A splashing otter slinks onto the sand
Nearby mallards preen unperturbed.
Birds chatter in flight, two settle on a shrub
Standing stubborn with smoke shriveled leaves
The enthralling sight envelopes you pressing you warm and close

Your eyes close under the competing warmth
Of golden rhododendrons and blinding sun
Radiance bounces off green fluorescence
A cheerful backdrop to the wind dispersed soot
A slow easy smile tugs against your cheeks. “Magnificent.”

Proof, tongues spark fires.
As I burn in indignant
rage of uselessness.

But if I could I would make all houses fireproof.

Fireproof,
my house could be buried.
It would be fire proof, but I can not pay to do the job.

I can imagine it done.
I can imagine living in a mound I paid to have made,
I can imagine finding funding in a lottery ticket that blows by.

In my chthonic dwelling place,
I might imagine forging peace from scorn,
I might imagine shaping forms for horns and bells,
I might imagine making hate bow before darkening my door.

Fireproof,
in California, in 2020,
in the September like none can remember. listen:

Some say san'ana win's be blown in spite,
of all them prayers and they prayers,

Peacemaker sorts, say, not t'night.
Wounded warriors wisht redemption, gimme one mo' shot,
I got t'tell, t'*** outa hell. f'free, {humming birds were singing}

yeah, free, for the troof.
seekt 'n' found,
settled down, watch 2020 vision in 1963 mind,
at the Stardust Drive-In, on Route 66.

Kids, I cannot lie, I was a liar by trade and inclination,
so I do know how, and why, liars prosper.

I lack the knack.

I suspect Plato had this problem.
Nobody will believe me if I say I know this, but
IF
I were to say Socrates says he thinks this
or that,
I could talk to myself for hours, if I were Socrates
and Plato…
I could carry on trial-tri-tryag'in-a-logs,
make a joining thing
attack a subconning science, see a mental canker worm,

at the core,
lusting for more. And swallow.
--
Try the brandy, we perfected the tekhne, in 1263,
the very essence of a satisfied mind,
we captured in patient perfection.

Faster fasting, 2020, see, you ask me, I say, go slow --

look around,
some things happening here, there, where my words
are where you are,

and that's
kinda kool.
We come up to the Kool taste, all
gnostalgic gnshit.

Why so serious, seriously, if Schiller says, to this day,
our kind are at our peak in states of whole
heart and mind harmonized play.

Nobody blows my horn, see,
I move the needles, shhh
sing a song sung in pines,

say, sighing, I know, softer, I know
softer, still, I know

I heard
Little Boy Blue, come
blow your horn… yeah, pretty sure…

The brandy, right. I knew some things changed.

Fireproofing plan, began to take shape
and was buried in
details,

yes,{yes, yes} the rub, the scratch on the glass,
rough diamonds
find that act
vibratorily
such a rush, ping, the sing, ting - tones spiders feel,
while kiting over grand granite domes
protruding from Baja to Reno, and beyond.
--
A wise man built his house on this rock,
and I bought it, on credit, by God,
I declare I am no man's slave,
I owe no man, but to be a true and noble friend at all times.

Naturally, of course, in the flow of all things,
as AI has guessed it might look
from a distance, we see

we are a very tiny bit
of everything at once.

What I think I am matters, just exactly that much.

-- and on earth, in reality,
I thank God Almighty
and the best of luck, for firefighter types of minds and bodies.

Aristotle at my fingertips,
not locked in soliloquies I may perform,
but heard from an Oxford don I have
in my pocket,
as I lean into each lesson and trudge
up and down my morning
constitutional,
where the firebreak meets
chaparral alive with cottontail
this morning, when I almost said, "it's too hot."

C'mon, walk a mile with me… like
on the road to Emmaus, but Christ, no;
this character,
a soldier in me, about to salt out, bids me,
walk a mile, "not two, one
does the trick."
The thought comes
as a dare from the Ralston Purina guy,
and I stepped onto my trail.
I dare think Aristotle's thoughts after Plato's,
thinking
I could have known this when I was younger,
but not to this degree,

if I had not dropped out, and never knew,
by rote,
to pass a test, that
"All men by nature desire to know."
This is
Curiosity, right? I suspect it is a gift.

The joy we find in sensation, proof
offered the gainsayer,
I say again, that which is good for nothing
never
never
naturally exists, so
what tool forms an eye to notice that…

see, through the window
of my poetic-pathetic e-thoughtic soul
a feathery
family of phoebe birds, flits by,
if that is the proper name
{Tufted-Titmouse, my AI replies},
tails reflecting a smokey blue hue,
they swoop and flutter past;
I see
in a non-imaged flashpast pattern
from a time in the summer of 1969…

Disneyfied trails
from Cinderella's dressing room
scene, not seen, but reminded of seeing,
the pattern, in this phantomind dance,
being witnessed now, as
this old soldier once saw it
performed by bluer birds than these…

Time skipper
shifts to another bubble intersecting mine
and

I hear a worried neighbor fret about the fire.
I almost say,
"One of the benefits of being
backedup to the cloud,

nothing to lose."

But I remember, she collects purses and shoes.

We sit by the pool,
staring at the bloodied sun,
and watch the ash fall.