"sonoma" poems
phoebe will remain my hostage until
four barrel's hipster overlords hear my plea
we're all made of sparkledust and turkish delight
and if you hate drinking sonoma butter and
having money, my doctor Archmage Overlord
said the the "happy drink" element you seek is
less like strong coffee and more like the invasion
of normandy with turkey slaughter in the background
kfc's new turkey flavored chicken tried looking
for drugs in the neighborhood but
timothy leary, his suave excellency, sheik knight of nee
abstained from the devil's coffee with headaches and brain fog
anyway, that's why i attacked the
complimentary peanuts and russian balloon juice
FURIOUS POSTSCRIPT
"no one can understand the truth until
he drinks of the feline's frothy goodness"
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
It's holidays hamsters haven't you herd.
From all that annoying *** music and commercials done by sellout artist
trying to be cool word.
I myself would rather spend this month in a holiday coma.
Buy some cheap hookers some good whiskey and run over a black Friday crowd
in a stolen Sonoma .
It's give me give me and that's just from dad.
He'll break the bank and mommy will give him something the other
night his brother already had.
Maybe I should plant a minefield upon my lawn.
To ward off carolers who only make me yawn.
I'll poison my cookies and sit back and wait.
Rob the old fat man and take Miss Santa out on a much deserved date.
Make your list and he will check twice.
After I blow his *** to pieces it really wont matter if your naughty or nice.
The holidays are a time for people to act insane over **** they do not need.
There addicts of want the stores are nothing more than dealers
selling coke crank and ****
Maybe you love the lights and the holiday rush with the family and all.
Well you can eat **** and jingle my ball.
I hope to stay on the naughty list as long as I'm alive.
Sincerely from Gonzo.
Shut the **** up and stop acting worse than a child who's five.
Don't send me a card cause I wont reply.
Here's your present it's a bomb now please die.
I hate the holidays call me a Grinch if you like.
**** you Santa all I asked for was a brick of ******* ,ten cases of whiskey, a key to the ******* mansion , a lifetime pass to the chicken ranch , A million dollars in unmarked bills ,
My neighbors dead ,And Harley Davison Motor bike.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
We all thought he would
Stay here forever, like
So many other lethargic
Sons and daughters of the slough
Who may never have learned what the mustard fields were for.
I escaped early, lucky I
Guess, but never quite let
Go of him, and another year
Gone by, like battered ships we return.
Those eyes are intense and
Hazel in the oncoming
Headlights, buzz-cut
Hair black as the ruins of Haystack Landing.
Once you’re told, you remember what the mustard fields were for.
“I’m different, I mean,” he says,
**** even at dinner with family. I
Freak out, get paranoid, like I’m
Fighting for my life in the Sonoma hills.”
He sighs, “I know you know,
When I come back from
Where I’m going, seeing you is
What I’ll want the most, but--”
I wonder if he knows what the mustard fields were for.
“I’ll probably be real different,
Probably need a lot of help.”
Passing elevated acres of mustard, we
Pause; he says, “Gotta stop for gas.”
This soldier stands in sharpened
Contrast to this rural, liberal
Community, these Victorian
Cathedrals of a quiet isolation.
They will never tell you what the mustard fields were for.
I wonder then if something about our
Air here makes us want to reach out,
Aspire for our names and badges
Across the expanse of war and peace.
Like the murky waters of the turning basin,
History hides a silent violence.
Hatching, we find ourselves inoculated against
Human strains of moral dystrophy.
I went into the world knowing well what the mustard fields were for.
They’re still here, still growing, those
Slender, musky stalks, golden heads
Sweetly pastoral in their floral bloom,
Soft biochemical carpets in a cultivated sprawl.
I know now, I know **** well what the mustard fields were for.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
Purple tips softly graze the tops of the golden fields.
Vines line the wire fences
Grapes as supple as your lips.
Motors and metal wind down the valley floors
Hills between Sonoma and napa shimmer with darkness.
The trees line the tips of each hill creating shadows following the ridges.
Twangy sounds of banjos strum in the background
Familiar laughter. Common conversation.
Passing the Fremont diner, Steinbecks route is traveled again
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
I'm off to the Bay area tomorrow
Throw me toward the setting sun--
to the West, when my work is done.
Land me at the golden door
of California’s northern shore.
Fiery orange steel-gird gate
tempts those weary of their fate.
Defy the plunge that ends it all,
and heed the sunshine’s cheery call.
Traverse the gate, into the wild,
where restless souls may rest awhile,
beyond the towns, toward the coast,
where whales return and hawks will roost.
The golden hills of Sonoma
will calm the pains of any trauma.
The wines and vines of the Napa valley
will help to pass the time happily.
And as you cross the Golden Gate
the Pacific blue will calmly wait.
Glance to the east and you will see
the placid Bay by the white city.
The sky is bigger here; it spans
the hills, the bridge, the bay and ocean.
Its azure grandeur soon dispels
any suicidal notion.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
Can’t find no happiness in this beautiful place
The bright yellow flowers just don’t seem to be putting that smile on my face
These dark curvy roads just seem to be a metaphor for this life
These abandon barnyards remind me of all my load of strife
And if I could just find one place as ugly as me
I’d take comfort in the fact I’m not the only thing hated by He
Call me cynical; ask me how I can carry such a frown
But maybe it’s time to escape that made up happiness that you seem to surround
I’ll jump into the open fields and dig myself a grave
Put a white cross so that maybe Jesus will save
But over time where I rest, the field will develop its only barren spot
Rest in peace, you’ve created our only devil lot
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 7:26 AM UTC
I watched the fog come in today,
pushing cold air out of the bay,
to where I stood barefoot, a traveler,
the sun became veiled, plans unraveled.
Cool May day at fifty two Fahrenheit,
fog shrank and shifted from grey to white,
rolled slowly gaining size over crests of each,
rock face, all the way to every bridge and beach.
We chose a different path and drive,
Napa and Sonoma Valleys, so alive,
101 was the temp not the route,
stop counting the signs of repute.
I'll go back one day,
for in this life I have
in no way,
tasted enough.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
Early morning skien of geese,
their cadence marks the course.
They're headed for our pasture pond
where we once loved our horse.
They glide on in with silence now,
all sounds are laid to rest...
the final skim the surface clear we
count them with the best.
for sure as sunsets pass the tests,
Sonoma County is always blessed.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
If you want to see something beautiful, drive through Sonoma County.
Find your favorite song.
Press play.
Turn it up.
Drive.
Drive up into the riches of the rolling hills. Take note of the light that casts its shadow onto the mountain as the world begins to darken.
Observe as each ray transitions from hints of lemon to a red dawn, staining your cheeks with the color of peaches.
Study every vine you see, rooted into the soil, having withstood the many blood moons of that fateful October.
Search deeply into the horizon where our sky hugs the mustard seed fields. The sun has found its way home within the crevices of the countryside, as have the birds, nestled in the necks of the blue oak trees.
Maybe a piece of you will find home too, planted into the ground that will one day give shade to another, twisting into branches that tangle together and apart, again and again.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 1:51 AM UTC
I fell in love with the whole Bay Area
SF
Monterey
Santa Cruz
Napa
Sonoma
Big Sur
I sit here still and I am stunned by it's beauty
It might be my favorite place on earth.
"Why don't you move there"
They ask.
For the same reason I keep certain people that interest me
at a distance.
Sometimes you don't want your illusion to be replaced
with the truth.
Sometimes it's better to let it live inside you and just visit.
Also never meet your heroes.
...just kidding. Try to meet them all.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
Scene:
3 A.M.
The Husband and The Wife lie in bed,
asleep.
The punch line:
3:02 A.M.
The Wife, stubbornly inert,
had not yet shut her eyes.
She is practicing the art of stillness
in the midst of a bloodbath
3:05 A.M.
soon to be brought about by her own wretched hands.
Above the sheets, she grips
the mirrored blade she stole from Williams-Sonoma
at 12:12 P.M., yesterday.
The husband breathes,
3:15 A.M.
bathed in sick, sick ignorance, but,
as the wife knows in all 206 of her bones,
not a drop of innocence.
She does not concern herself with the (During: 3: 51 A.M.)
****** itself,
even as her weapon slides cleanly between the goal-posts,
because she is already four steps past this act,
4:15 A.M.
scrubbing herself down with lye
and transferring the stained dish-rags from Wash to Dry.
The Morning After:
doesn’t really matter, it is all a performance
directed by necessity.
The wife stands at her kiln
(what a strange and extravagant wedding gift)
8:00 A.M.
and convinces herself that innocence
is a four-letter word, used exclusively by lying
men like The Husband--
who speak only in threats and backhanded
compliments.
In their fatal blindness, these men lie down in bed--
so very stupidly--
with the targets of their rage, the twisted products
of fear and resentment and bone-cold courage.
And The Husband stands tall with his cruelty--
Even at the moment of death (4:00 A.M.)
Even in the wake of his own burning flesh (8:01 A.M.).
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC