In this light history is no longer a safe bet
or an answer to a question you haven't asked yet,
there are hard shelled tourists
of all sorts diminished in ques
outside tavern doors that offer nothing
less than the same bottled bullshit
and tattoo'd fists in the face
for no offense other than
merely being available
and visibly unsure
as to how change is made
around here,
i take my time staring at signs
that used to scream something about
locks and plumbing
and fat lettered screams of LIQUOR
burning the avenue dusk
that is less seduction
than it is a direct order,
at night men without shirts
and aggravated aromas
take their seats under the
signs of banks and succumb
to the sediment they've accrued
with the skin they cannot shed
fast enough, they tell their stories
the intersection traffic that stops and goes again
in search of a future they don't have to be afraid of,
cars blurred in red and white zags that slice the night
and screams of sitting, shirtless men
explaining themselves to ghosts
and whispers that emerge from
cracked mortar and mail box slots,
the traffic moves on, the neon gets loud,
insect sounds everywhere near the beach,
even the ocean is all foam and babbling
at the shore where little breaks
but bottles and pauses in between prayers
that have yet to find a cloud worthy
of the poetry of beseeching,
at the end of the road there is a wood fence
and traffic signs attached,
there is the blackness of a canyon
that swallows up the light
of whatever homes dare the dry, desiccated foliage,
this world is only a pack of cigarettes
away from being meaningless and charred beyond use,
half the world is trying to sleep
as the other half
finds a new belt to wear
for whatever funerals
their wanderings award them with,
miracles seem a memory
of the last time
something truly
fucked up happened
to someone you hoped
would live in increasing waves
of aggravated existence,
crazy , miraculous laughter
recalling the glory days
and marking the date
on a calendar since I leaned into a punch
i saw coming,
the air is full of static,
a crackle of mosquito bites
and spider bites,
heat rash and lost appetite
to the scrape of passing shoes
and half uttered phrases
comparing the sneers
and hang overs
bar to bar,
harmonica blues makes the night
even more difficult to trace
original intent
and documented cases of men and women sane in the decisions to
play in traffic, to smoke same old cigarettes,
recollect their lives
in the present tense
as if history were a crossword someone had already completed
and memory was just the nagging rhymes of pop songs
muffled by ear phones, a sanctimony of tropes
one would trip over if the bass and vocal
didn't make you think
of someone being beaten
badly behind a dumpster in an alley
closer than you cared to consider,
the local legend used to be
"tonight the surfers and the Mexicans
are gonna have it out
under Crystal Pier, mother fucker",
the local legend used to be
"welcome to Pacific Beach",
the local Legend used to be.