dreamcoats
of whispering rainfree blue sky
in the shadow of light brown mountain face of Wilson, its crown metal
solar reaching antennae skies
the city of sierra madre sleeps
in soft sweet foothills
arcadia, greek land of peace & manicured lawns
flora & fauna, ferns, shrubs, wide avenues
suburban siloheuttes, kids on skateboards
highschools planted against hillsides, roadways winding
twisting roads into the hills
vistas of seas of sparkle & lights
& I might think of Vicki Anderson
& Lucia might mention her as well
though these words explore not my present but my long strange past
& the path it took through Ken Whiteley times.
And Vicki Anderson lived on one of those wide streets;
Just down the road from Sierra Madre & her alien pod courtyard/square
They shut down Howies Ranch Market.
I hear Bruce Sprangenburger stills lurks in her canyons, Nature Friends still
a chalet tucked away in Munchkinland Heaven.
Castaway was a drifter on a bike
smoking demonweed CB radio times, there was Turbo Prop
High up in the canyon, cobbled walls of stone
recall tom sawyer vans tour into the canyons & devils gate, the Rose Bowl
oh ancient home of childhood & riding horses and sinking into blue school swimming pools
high up in the Linda Vista hills & desert canyons. And Janie Ricter, and Tim Healy and heaven's knows Steve Seine insane on Rick Swanson/Chris Wing lazy dry summers searching ragweed scorching michelle bauers psychedlic trips into a premature USC futures wasted on Sean Shenanigans as Jesus Christ loopy twisted turns into a DeEvolving 80's ... ROQ of the Eighties, yahoo
& tortured New Wave reading of the Tubes, and Blondie, & Punk Rock Pizza. down
at Venice
fractured Harry Perry, white turbaned, rollerskating psychedelic soldiers of the time.
grateful dead came later, winding stories from friends about Dylan trenchcoat hipness in crowds plotting the rebirth of the groovy 1960's yeah
never quite came on a Mark Comings FlashBack Ride. his own guru fire swept up in John Range's mane, as a Lion born of the Great Desert Faith of Nomads burning jihad
into a never ending epiphany
of messiahs surfing into a bar chord summer riding a minor & a major
back beat
tunes strummed on Whiteley's guitar humming or maybe Doug Maas, might make moss turn on a simple rolling stone, or a simple twist of ten-foot faces breaking like waves on Bob Hezleps' John Wayne Beach.
Yeah Ted Bishop son of ancient Roman poets, Popes, and posers, surfing languna naked
suicide stuck of Christian hope for owning homes & equities in her lush
aquatic garden.
do Bailey, dance with Jonathon Winters, chance to
to find the House of Bluth atop our one time, old stoner
middle school canyons.
Oh Song of Arcadia
This gentle land of Peace & precise lawns
and Letterman lives lived out of homes now razed to make way for Mansions
built on Asian Silver & Gold
and post-communist horizons.
2000 came and Arcadia still thunders, slumbers
into raging, thermoglobal, thermonuclear future, full of holiday spectacles & maybe these children are hopeful of some unknown solution
or is this the end?
that the bluesman sang, in the leather coat to a soul in Europe on the eve of college and certain post adolescent wanderings & missteps.
a soul lost
& soul begot
the lost electric soul
no longer wandering on a Berekley street nightmare, with dead poet, Eric, now Rimbaud forever & ever
no bubble ladies or Tami Bond Spy Capers. Only children, three bright eyes for a future rising to meet fate,
& the Incan Lady from the gates of Heaven, above Cuzco & Lima, Macchu Picchu, and
a new world shining.
I taste her miracle poison
& the memory of a soldier
& a childhood now chased into a mirror.
Look at my past
glazing back at me, forever echoing the words of a poet, rolling numbers, & Rick Swanson green vines, Scotty C, and Mark Ferris Wheel fun zone just beginning...
to taste the roses of Dylan's sweet desolation rows, & I think of Eric always Eric playing us the tale of the hanging and postcards from an edge flowing
a house on Parker Street.
Telegraph
& a Mediterraneum Coffee Shop
Where the flow of coffee & german kerstin hege memories of
German reconcilitation.
I remember a soldier
& a heartbeat snuffed in hosptial in the bay area.
& a drummer & a beat & a band of gypsies & Jehovahs.
A motorcyle repair shop on Giant Road.
A Universal Mission. Save the World. Explode the future.
And endless songs played into an endless night.
That is it for now,
& New Year's Eve
Come cold Christmas morning.
We were there; we remember
A nightmare Billy Rameriz roaming wild streets
& police station recoveries.
searching for meanings, messages, meandering
into the future, the future still just keeps coming, how soon till
it all quiets down,
into a space just beyond the edge of the end, before
there ever was
& forever after?
I fall forward more
not sure just where I am
falling ...
