Western Evaporate 

Just you wait, till we get back to west coast

Carburetors, skateboards in the air

Convalesce like those California natives

There’s a memory, of something left behind

Chorus: How can I get back to you this time

Zen and, the art of motion sickness

Capistrano, birds back to me

All jet fuel, everything to jettison

Evaporating – someone left behind


Fashioned From the Gun:

Up at 4am, the yellow teeth, a mockingbird and I, a singer upon a theme

Sheets of liptimis, Bill Gates has coined Leonardos pen which drew parachutes of silk

CHORUS: Now we know the ways and means are fashioned from the gun – oh

And the alkaline, the submarines, the silver mines, those boys, tour sutters fort

And past Bakersfield, cibela looms in drawing rooms and tombs – seven streets of gold


After pentacost, the workers smile, the Spanish tiles, those boys tour Sutter's fort

Up at 5am, my tanic acid acorn meal rye – beaten just for sport 


American Static: 


Greyhounds to the great northwest,, all the green tortoise bunks, tecate hangovers linger on 

Smoking out in the port-o-lets,  bumbershoot lets the bands take stage, in shadows of the fans

All it can break break break, your heart.


Stopovers at o’hare , they’re de-icing all the wings, gliders of a gilded static age _

Washing Nyquil down with rum , Cherokee kyle cherished you , and your econlodge escapades



Oh it can break break break break your heart


Back home, and back in town, back to being what I was , before I wasn’t anything at all

Mix tapes on cassettes, all forgotten tunes they get, wasted out on the wastelands of of us all


December, 1976: 

The wave came as a sudden surge of saltwater that my father didn’t see nor even sense, a colossus of gravitational motion, plankton and regurgitated continent that swept through his legs and left him off-balance and suspended, hanging precariously by one hand to a cleft of the high cavernous seawall.  His body was pummeled in cascades that heaved onto the rocks with a peculiar vengeance reserved for things unknown and unimagined.  Yet in this ferocity my father seemed to linger in animation, cocooned in a bubble of despair perched between land and sea.

Indeed, the land and sea were at odds here and met at a point that was jagged and sheered. Ragged plateaus of continent plunged and tides frothed in torrents of energy. Land erupted from surf, jutting upward and outward in patterns of headlands, groves, rivers and ravines. Here, a geology of sand and water were bound to timeless erosion.

Nearby a seagull with a mangled leg hopped along the shoreline. It bobbed tentatively, one, two, three, four times and then stopped to rest. The gull lingered defeated, before making a final effort to rise toward the cliff in a flap of wings. It pushed and pushed until a gust took it outward toward the breakers and set it against a rip curl where it was lost to turbulence.  

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