"monterey" poems
Deep down in the inhospitable gloom
Monterey Canyon welcomes an expectant mother
Unnoticed in the distance a whirring sound
and two parallel laser beams
Miss Cellania finds a nook
That instinct suggests is right
A place to nest and brood
A place to guard and wait
1.4 kilometers up a research institute
Guided the unmanned submarine
Correlated masses of data
Stared at live video feed
A unique event unfolded
Capturing such a moment
in this dark abyss
Clinging to a vertical rock
Her precious babies waiting to hatch
Her final duty to
Wait
Wait
Wait
Wait
Wait
Protect from predators and the icy cold
And so she began the
Inky black wait
Detached
Alone
The research crew returned later that year
Miss Cellania dutifully kept her vigil
They returned again month after month
Still she stubbornly stuck to the task in hand
The months turned to years
And still she protected her unhatched young
Clung to the same vertical spot
With nothing to eat
Alert, defensive
Motherly
Patiently waiting
Wasting away
Waiting
Waiting
Untill
F i f t y t h r e e m o n t h s l a t e r
Four and a half years
Finally her wait ended
With a flurry of independent life
Then death.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
When they get to the aquarium, the kid asks if they have a Great White shark exhibit.
The volunteer says no, we don’t.
The kid asks, “Why? are you afraid he might try to eat people?”
The volunteer chuckles at this and tells him no. no aquarium has successfully held a Great White shark live for more than a few days.
You see, in order to stay alive, Great Whites and other sharks, like hammerheads, swim on their own continuously through the ocean, never stopping, never slowing, tramping a perpetual journey with many miles to go before they finally reach “sleep”. If they stop, the oxygen rich water around them no longer flows over their gills and into their bodies and they suffocate from the strain of being at rest. So they keep going, like lost children searching for their parents in a very large amusement park.
This need to keep moving, this need for space, has made it extremely difficult to keep them in our meager glass human death cages. When the Monterey bay aquarium managed to capture a juvenile that didn’t thrash itself to death like the adult sharks they netted before, it bashed its head against the tank’s sturdy walls until the shock of being dragged out of its home and put in the equivalent of a coffin killed it.
But, the volunteer continued cheerfully, we have other kinds of sharks here. We have zebra sharks, which don’t need to swim nonstop. In their natural habitat, they just lie on the ocean floor all day. The kid agrees to go see them
The zebra sharks are not lying on the floor nor do they look like zebras. They swim slowly past him, leopard spots dotting their ridges on their backs, their fins, their long tails. “They’re called zebra sharks because of the zebra like patterns of the juveniles,” the volunteer explains. The ones we have here are adults.When they become adults, they get the spots and those ridges you see. Sometimes people mistake them for leopard sharks, which are a totally different species.”
The kid stares at the zebra sharks for a full ten minutes, looking for a sign of resignation at being called something they weren’t anymore, at collectively being referred to by a childhood nickname they had long outgrown. They did not seem to care.
He gets bored and goes to other exhibits, the split fin flashlight fish blinking on and off in their darkened tank, the touch pool, the medusa jellyfish with their trailing tentacles. But the sharks are what he remembers when he leaves, and they’re what he remember when he returns three months later, six months later, two years later, three, five, ten, this is what stays with him, the sharks in our tanks and the sharks in the ocean.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 2:20 AM UTC
In a strange mood - see/write art
in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^
in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.
knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.
a ***** well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.
^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell
Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
All I wanted was a cigarette.
We weren't allowed to smoke.
He knew where to go.
We swept sidewalks together.
Raked sand together.
Talked about life together.
His window was across from mine.
I think he saw me changing once.
Maybe more than once.
He was getting dishonorably discharged.
I didn't think he was a good man.
I didn't think he was a bad one, either.
It had been two weeks since I landed in Monterey.
I only wanted a cigarette.
He knew where to go.
I bought the Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.
He carried them with him to his room.
I didn't think anything of it.
We raked sand together.
We ate lunch together.
We watched movies together.
We sat on a makeshift bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
We drank and smoked and laughed.
I taught him Farsi and he taught me Russian.
Russian for "hello" and "goodbye."
Russian for "This is allowed."
Russian for "This is not allowed."
I think he saw me changing once.
He tried to kiss me on the cheek.
I told him no, my boyfriend wouldn't like that very much.
We smoked some more.
We drank some more.
We laughed some more.
It was 2130.
I had to be in my room by 2200.
He said not to worry, I'd be back in time.
I insisted and tried to leave.
I fell to the ground.
He didn't help me up.
I only wanted a cigarette.
He kissed me on the mouth.
I did not kiss him back.
I was immobile.
Paralyzed.
Drugged?
He kissed me again.
And again.
And again.
I did not kiss him back.
I had a boyfriend.
All I wanted was to smoke and drink and laugh.
He grabbed me by the ankles.
Pulled me over the ditch behind the army barracks by the installation fence.
I could hear soldiers coming back to their rooms.
I was paralyzed.
I always thought I would fight.
Fend him off with car keys stuffed between my fingers.
I looked up at the tree branches above me, my watch said 2147.
That was the last time I prayed to God.
There were leaves in my hair and dirt on my arms.
There was something less than a man between my legs.
It looked at me with hate in its eyes.
We swept sidewalks together.
God kicked back and swigged a PBR
while I was ***** behind the army barracks,
over the ditch by the installation fence.
He helped me up.
I couldn't stand on my own.
How sweet.
I vomited by a tree.
I was disgusted with myself and him and God.
I wanted to drown in Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.
He walked me to my barracks building.
How sweet.
I made it to my room by 2200.
All the girls watched me stumble down the hallway.
I was so violently alone.
Taps wailed outside the window.
I left my hat by the bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
He brought it to me the next morning.
How sweet.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
Mysterious Night
Come look on vistas ever sweeping the hills a maiden walks in white she seems to create
Greater light follow her into the night where fire flies is her crown and lights up her curvaceous gown
And the gentle dawn she breaks by her sleepy eyes that causes the heart to be the only sound that is
Heard as it thumps with approval add a touch of dew to her hair if you dare a swaying week kneed man
Isn’t the most attractive sight but what can be when you’re caught in the awe of such loveliness like the
Current of the Seine just turn on the Paris lights stroll the west end the glow from the shop windows
Adds to the flow mix it with jasmine and here the slow expressive violin drift along the empty street
Its heaven coursing stop the carriage driver it is the perfect night for a carriage ride in the park
Somewhere as you listen to the clip clop of the horse’s hooves you are transported to the sea coast
Of ole Monterey out at the point of the peninsula the mighty waves crash over the rocks in the
Moonlight the night does speak with wondrous overtures love is the thrill that covers all the land
Mermaids sing from the hidden mysterious places that they alone know and then all the picturesque
Vivid images end alas it was just a lovely dream if so why do I still smell the Jasmine and a perfume that
is only sold in Paris
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 3:42 AM UTC
Want you please speak to me in the 60's
In far out psychedelic rhymes
Take a ride beside the blacklight
On the Velvet Underground
Wake me up with the Strawberry Alarm Clock
Serving incense and peppermints in bed
Fixing a hole where the rain gets in
As the 60's flood my head
Walk with me through Asbury
With a flower child in hand
Listening to the groovy tunes
Of Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band
Hang out with the hippies
Before Monterey goes pop
As they fly like butterflies
At the moment the acid drops
Want you please speak to me in the 60's
In the innocence of peace and love
Back then we all had our share
But is there ever really enough?
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
Missing you is like a tornado in Kansas
Tumultuously whirling past barren grass lawns,
Shattering the glass windows of old, forgotten
Convenience stores and local barber shops,
Twisting and teasing the warm, summer air
Until it finally gains momentum enough
To come tumbling down upon unsuspecting
Rosemary bushes and rusty metal fences,
While I'm sitting here,
Trying to make sense of how I'm supposed to feel about it all,
On a beach somewhere between Monterey and San Francisco.
It isn't that you don't exist, or that you aren't occurring,
Destructively whirling your mixed intentions
Across the pavement
That once gave way to my strange, unrestricted heart.
It's not that I don't care about you,
Or that I don't notice
When you make your presence all but unnoticeable,
But, maybe I don't see you anymore.
You're sentiment can't reach me here.
The harsh tornado winds aren't quite strong enough
To blow across my indifferent face
All the way from Kansas.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
Sunrise
6 am
we are on holiday
his hands steadily tease
my body awake
he knows it’s not always easy
to make love to me
before coffee
he must be masterful
a sun god blazing
creating heat
by the time he enters me
the room is melting
and i am as wet
as the monterey sea
that slaps rhythmically
outside the open window pane
each ****** will change me
as the crashing wave
does the beach
i need some ground
in this abyss
so I'm holding on
my fingers
clutching his rib cage
the nape of his neck
finally i surrender
let go and moan
and moan
like the oceans soft hum.
we meet at the horizon
at the edge of pleasure
and ***
our bodies fall soft
our breath jagged
i couldn't possibly know then
that we were only days away
from never making love again.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
So delicious, ah delicious
I cannot help but eat
mozzarella, Monterey,
I'm turning into cheese
Cheese is oozing from my skin
it's dripping down my knees,
the thing I loved, I ate so much
the cheese has mastered me!
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
I am from climbing the rocks by the beach with the dim morning light of the rising sun filtering through the morning fog of summertime.
I am from lying in my warm bed, giving into my dreams while listening to my mom sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”
I am from the foggy mornings in Monterey Bay watching the sun burn through the marine layer every day. The sun always won its morning battle, but while it struggled I would watch the rainbows come dancing through the fog.
I am from sitting in Mr. ***** coffee shop, sipping hot chocolate with piles of whipped cream and a smile on my face on cold Friday nights, listening to my dad play Paco Bell Cannon on violin while Hannah Beckham plays on the cello.
I am from playing in the waves on warm summer days; catching the sand ***** and throwing them back into the ocean. Finding seashells and putting them in my dad’s pocket so I didn’t have to carry them.
I am from walking down Soquel Creek, finding big rocks, falling in the water, riding on my dad’s shoulder on the way back because I got tired, and playing on the swing set that was at the end of it.
I am from hiking through Nicene Marks Redwood forest with my dad and whoever wanted to come. Watching the leaves fall down off the trees, ever so slowly, like angels falling from heaven.
I am from the night I moved from all I ever knew, watching my child hood home fading in the distance. I watched while my friends waved at me as they faded away in both my vision and my memory. I never saw them again. Goodbye, I whispered, as every thing I ever knew faded away. Goodbye.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 9:25 AM UTC
EYES
two three four
RIGHT
two three four
The commands still fresh in my head
we piled on the bus before dawn.
On the way to the airport I took off my
glasses and put in contact lenses that
had been sitting in a closet for eight weeks.
It felt good to look like myself again.
I would never be myself again.
I saw the sun rise in Phoenix, dawning
on my new life. Warm March morning
seeping through terminal windows
waiting for our connecting flight. We
paced in anticipation.
Pacing. Pacing. Pacing. Waiting. Boarding.
Landing.
Surrounded by smiling, welcoming faces
and yet instantly alone. I had too many
bags and had to carry them up three flights
of stairs by myself. It was late. I didn't
make my bed in the morning.
I got yelled at.
I was instantly alone.
In this shining bright dawn on a brand new
age sun warm on my face fog cool on
my skin
I was instantly violently terrifyingly alone.
And I would never be myself again.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
I still long to go to California,
I want to see that place.
The jellyfish filled space in Monterey
I want to touch the tank's glass
and see the sea nettles up close.
I want to be there
and know that I'm home.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 6:42 AM UTC
There's sand in my car
on the seat, the floor, underneath the brake
I brush and brush but it just jumps up and falls back down
exactly where it is, as sand always did
as the sand from the Monterey Bay does
when I grew up and now
and I try to jog on the beach
but my muscles are so weak now
and I remember my young body
jogging and getting tight again within days
but I am home,
and that is what I feel more than anything
and the decades seem to be diaphanous, like clouds or
whispy spray, not so heavy and real
and after crunches in the sand
I am on the couch writing in a notebook
and I touch my hair and sand falls out
making tiny little sand noises as each particle
hits the paper
and I remember being in high school
when this happened all the time,
and sand will fall, and cling, and put itself on you
in your car, in your hair and into your life
until you can't live without it, must be near it
And my body will fade, and worse still my mind
but the sand will stay forever, tiny and infinitely monumental
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
Steinbeck’s restless ghost whispers to me
as I tiptoe along a stone seawall.
He steers me away from the bay
back to the old sandstone churches
built by native hands,
back to music festivals and artisan fairs
full of mild, white cheeses
and would-be novelists arguing
about Henry Miller’s tropics.
But I’ve grown tired of his whispering
and no longer wish to dream of these things.
I would rather descend into a watery haven.
I will wave goodbye to John
and I will run down sandy paths
that lead to the sea.
I wade into the depths and sink
into a canyon where kelp shivers
in underwater breezes,
and the only stars I see will be
suction-cupped to the rocks below.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 9:02 PM UTC
Oakland today
Maby farthur north
I might go to Monterey
Maby go check out a l.a porsche
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
We danced across the roof of the sky,
with the lightning flashing by
we laughed and held each other tight.
It was just another night in Monterey.
And dashing from one bolt to the next one
the dance carried on 'til the break of day,
when we set aside the morning light.
Then held each other tight once more,
stepped up to the door of dawn
and opened wide the seals.
This ,
the reason why we're born to dance with thunder
and split apart
the gentleness of the aching heart.
To
step inside the eagerness of why we hide
and slide down rainbows,
twinkling toes and stars that shine are yours ,
be mine.
Time slips down along with rain
and what hurt once,does so no longer
and while the storm we carry gets much stronger
we become
serene,
moving,dancing in our dream
and amid the streams of crashing life that smash upon the shore
we open once again the door
and are born once more into the
dance we make.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
Stars on top of stars on top of stars. Blankets of silver snow. I unzipped my sleeping bag, the one I got for 15 dollars at a yard sale in Monterey. I brought my knees to my chest and thought about my friends and California.
Emily was living in a small apartment in Arcata, with a little garden out front that had dandelions and mint and some tomatoes. Everything in her apartment was either bought at a garage sale or on craigslist. Her mom gave her everything else, which was really only the bed and some silverware. I liked her little brown teakettle the most. “Isn’t it cool? Five bucks at a garage sale in good ole’ Moghetto.” She adored these things more than herself and embraced the simple life she held, her bike, garden, and lack of almost everything entirely.
She had taken the semester off to travel, but she never went anywhere, just stayed in that garden all day, boiling water in the kettle for God knows what. There wasn’t money to go anywhere, and what she got from painting fences or apartments was easily spent at the market on chicken, nuts, hummus, eggs, or rice. My God it was wonderful to see her move around that miserable apartment, showing me every little thing she had.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
My trees have personalities
I know I must be going
a little crazy.
The dog wood howls at the moon
The Waxmertyl craves the river
The Monterey Pine flourishes
It'll know me when I die.
The Cybress is a youngin
Not quite sure
Under the plum tree many times I've cried
for all of the innocence inside.
The Elder Berry has an identity crisis
Doesn't know if it's a bush
Or a tree.
I'm not saying their trying to talk to me
And I'm not saying I'm trying to talk to them
I'm just saying
We're all here
Just trying to be.
Aug 20, 2021
Aug 20, 2021 at 8:02 PM UTC
Sometimes it takes distance to bring fury.
The way my mother boils thinking back to what my father said to his children
When we still were children
And she hid behind a glass of wine and solemnity.
There's a quavering fire in her voice now when we talk about his ugly fits
replacing her quavering smallness from then.
When a lanky café singer
who loved Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds
Stole my breath
… and something small and soft and white from me in a Monterey
Monterey parking lot
I cried
I hid
I scrubbed
But you had better believe
Now?
I burn.
It wasn't my fault his hands were warped and crusted with filth.
His touching me
did NOT make me filthy.
When the curly haired beauty
with his biting, crinkling, smiling eyes
that flash above his mischief mouth
Poured all his sweetness onto me
Just to have me shocked at the bruises
Purple and green and sudden on the heels of his softness ,
I was lost and confused
and blamed myself for his
swaddle-fisted blows
But
I found my brimstone, hours later
Lapping at my lips after a cardboard confrontation
Just because you have a vulnerable heart
doesn't mean you have to be a coward.
Clearly.
Just look at me.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 5:21 AM UTC
Sometimes there's something jarringly disparate About the fresh sea salt fog and the beauty queen moon of the Monterey wharf.
Sometimes you need the painfully cold sludge of a Cleveland street with no sidewalks and the crying skeletons of trees to match your black coffee soul.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 11:21 PM UTC
LET'S KISS THE SKY
*“Wild thing
I think you
Move me...
You make everything
Groovy...
Wild thing
I think
I love you.....”
~~Jimi Hendrix version (Live)*
*Splashed across
the Monterey screen,
a Jimi scene
where he is on
his knees,
guitar aflame
as red ember fingers
entice,
urge each flickering note
to wail, screech.
Black, all colored
fingers encourage
a generation to
take it higher,
be the fire
burning down an
oppressive society.
“Wild thing,
I want to know for sure...
You move me!”*
~~~~~
*Back in the day,
as we often say,
Babylon was
on the run.
People planet wide
were having fun
like agitated atoms
escaping the sun
in great solar storm flares
spurred on by
Mao Tsetung
and the red East
rising of Tai Shan.
While in the beast’s belly
stood the Black Panther Party.
Red Book’s shining light
held high, displayed proudly.
In the other hand
they held
the guns
of liberation.
There were many who
impatiently
awaited word,
‘Let’s go! Now!
Seize the time
Seize the hour
Off the pigs,
Seize the power.
The sky was there
with red tinged clouds
waiting
wanting to be kissed
by the surge of humanity.*
~~~~~
*That was then.
We have rounded
histories bend
never reaching
the top of Chingkangshan.
This is now
a new generation
a youthful crowd
seeks a new hour,
a righteous power
to topple those
old ‘Ivory Towers’.*
~~~~~
*That was then
we rocked the boulevard
with our deeds
our urgent words
and necessities.
“Let’s not speak falsely now
the hour is getting late.”
Each day
saw some new advance
a new dance.
For a short
wonderful breath
we had the upper hand.
We had the bourgeois
on the run.
They, shaking at rustling leaves;
we, laughing as they flee.
That was then,
this is now.
We have rounded
histories bend
never reaching
the top of Chingkangshan.*
~~~~~
*As I replay
that Jimi scene from
30 some odd years ago
I can’t help thinking,
We had them on the run?
The flames from Jimi’s alive guitar
spoke to us
and we replied,
‘Wild thing,
you move me!'
And as we round
histories bend,
I can once again
see the snow caps
gleaming in the sun.
This time
this time we will
reach over top
of Chingkangshan,
we will boldly say,
“Excuse me while I kiss the sky!”*
Archives: Written 1998
https://youtu.be/7DGGFx7Zmbw
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
I cling to the rejection, like my next breath may depend on it
All the little details. Conspiracy theories. Sudden realizations.
Oh yes, that's it, that's why, then nothing, it's all clouded over again
and yet I am certain, like tripping over a log in a fog, that there is hope
It lies there, like that drift wood log, the ones I know lie out on the dunes of Monterey
and whiten in the sun, and are carved by the waves
It awaits me and is now as solid, as those pieces of dead tree, whose skeletons are so appealing
as they float, or lie still, partially covered in sand, home to an insect or crab,
and then wandering again, a perch for a bird, or for me
and on to their next stop
They will always be there, so long as there are trees and the Monterey Bay,
and it all beckons me.
As I sit in a muck, stuck somehow, if I move, I'm certain to lose a shoe
and yet, move I must, even if I will look silly slipping and sliding around
to that sandy shore, as the other muck dwellers watch me
some ridiculing. Some curious. Some sit on nice pieces of mud, elevated from the stench
Others, sunk to their knees. I must leave. However awkwardly, to hope.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
Blonde and buttery, a pleasurable perfection
creates sounds that blissfully perpetuate
carefully crafted notes of musical magic,
mesmerizing crowds that listen in awe.
Across the stage, rich majestic mahogany
arpeggiates gratifying waves of wonder;
her chords delightful and her body ebony
ears and eyes feast upon sounds and sights.
Monterey pop, a prodigy, painted and proud,
modified for appeal, a sound that astounds.
Melodies invade, a plethora of joy proceeds,
making shivers frisson down and through.
The crowd sits still, for merely a second.
Applause ensues, a standing ovation, and,
while a crowd stands, I float, like a feather
and Betty, Lucy, and Mary blush backstage.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC