1997 Brooken Beauty Santa Barbara part 4

1997 Brooken Beauty Santa Barbara part 4


already a memory
the desert showy skies
decorating blue in
mountain distance ringing
crumbling rock

into foreground of sand
silhouette of Joshua trees
waving towards promise
land brought forward
by desert flower

cactus bloom
standing, painting,
in all this space
integrity of every object,
at one

with the order of,
the poem
comet whizzing, into the stars
I twirl
with all

speeding past on way up coast, exhausted
by my desert stay, the whirling of experiences,
into fiction, made real now
by the artificiality driving Riverside,
Fontana, Los Angeles, the Valley

on and on through concrete Interstate
hot air, dust storm, eiry lighting,
a guy pushing a shopping cart aimlessly down
the freeway, the searching lights of a police car, planes
arriving through low fog, palms lit by neon

in and out
of burger joints, slowing to see the strip
what I was so far from, the cops checking the credentials
of lowrider cars creeping through sad streets,
lonelier, the trash blowing to the desert
ravens picking through

new born tortoises
struggling--
I’d better get back on the road if I am to make
Santa Barbara by night, the long wide curving
road between mountain and sea, the reflecting lights
delineate lanes, driving fast

through low clouds, watching the lights at sea
of oil platforms, there, the pier, that my friend
surfed as a kid, I’m nearing a place I feel as home but
escaping my grasp, the familiar off ramp, then winding
up into hills of homes tucked in here and there,

up and around the winding road and a final curve
and here feeling safe, high above the sea looking out
every one is sleeping, the sleeping town below
the moist cool into darkness drift--
the road ending

and I wake to the busy growing town into city
suburban city of busy people busy with what ever
they have gotten busy with, of what had seemed such
a special place, my dream
vines and plants of every variety growing in this

over crowded paradise, I hear birds all over but can’t see
them, people in every nook and cranny tucked away
I think of the lone hills, the breeze, a rustling grass
I am faced immediately with logistical problems--
Los Angeles extends to Santa Barbara as New York City to Long Island,

I’ve seen in my life time it all become one mass of
second order priority, I wade
my way to the lagoon-- dreaming place
from mountain to sea the opening out into
images flowing-- of possibility and memories of

the enlarged cycle, back to beginnings
in black and white whirl, my dream is clouded
why am I complaining--
it is a complaint of lost love, injustice by a people intent
on their American, right to water their lawn

to figure their comfort in mall style
moms, in cars
I take my walk out to the lagoon
and am whisked away
in poetic revere of earth

that life, too easy, not
old as the land-- yes, its been this way
a long time now
I denied it, I dream on
of course, art looks the way it does

I idealize, but it still
is beautiful, wonderful here
they don’t know what they have
working away in technical facilities
that word I learned

in Long Island
AMBIVALENCE, repeated
sneaking off through
the reeds
from here where it began
for me I go on

but the poetry stops--
coming back
to tell what bad news?
what home? this frustration--
I guess is the source of all this rambling

I’m thinking back on New York City,
yet another lost home
the spring rain on the barred windows
I heard the Chinese bells,
mournful sound

on the fire escape,
the new leaves are appearing
on the alianthus tree
I heard a gate like rustling sound, creaking
and groaning the groan becoming louder
a crying out, I go to look-- seeing myself in the rain

streaked reflection, looking out across the way
the drapery flies out a open window
I can see the motion of passion,
groaning and clawing,
going on and on

subsides and grows again, into crescendo,
the cool wind
gray light of early afternoon, wind whipping
puddles into frenzy an unsatisfied feeling
turning over, going on

the lagoon, here they are the herons--
again at sunset, swoosh of black and white
I saw them, heard their cries
the water bird’s
squawk against death,

the light fading red in the west,
sex and death
a continuing --moan
a cry against time
I look again and gone

drapery flapping
walking through the new wing of the Museum
Indian miniatures from Guler,
Shiva, the blue man, the Japanese print’s misty waterfall
cropped bird, shape, the exact curve, of the minimal

elegance, a refined people, eastern mood
we walked in Central Park on the way home
to the subway, downtown
the sun through
the leaves, the splendid spring,

I saw a flicker of that red
and yes, amazing
scarlet tanagers, why! I’d never seen them
before, maybe a glimpse but here! I scarcely believed!
the spot of color juxtaposed to the splash

of paint we’ve all dripped, dragged,
slashed, or run-on, a Marden painting, “the one to beat,”
as de Kooning would say
hard to figure
should have gotten it by now?

we all feel pretty much
on our own these days, our own schools
where’s the current?
my own painting machine to carry me
into the next century

still, painting,
the old buggy model T of Pollock--

ancient history
circles of worlds
weaving revolving
in a dance
of a center
feeling the whirl
the still point
a realization
one

and falling to
the baby sitter calling-- “Gregory... Gregory!”
the baby, cries, cries
I remember waking after the tonsils thing
moaning, the moan of life

that mom’s gone
I tried to tell them couldn’t
yes they’d done it, seen it--
flying back to coast, through Rocky Mountains
blue snow to black
climbing up through clouds against the graded sky

yellow to blue and a star in deepest --
pictures of what we loved
what we sacrificed so much to tell
all I wanted was a room
to surround myself with that declaration,

my world in earth
kicking pebbles on the beach, picking up the seaweed
not wanting to leave
driving down the endless road, radio playing
no one behind me now, forgetting my self,

the web is spun in my head
growing long now I can’t ignore it
needs constant care nurture
not to turn to weeds, rubbish, frustration
disappointment, hurling

accomplishment to the devil
continue from despair step out
the problems plague
me here and the suburban attitude--
there’s no rigor here

god, I have to stop complaining
I made a promise to myself today to not complain
I think I have to get out of here
who wants to hear it
but it goes on, the driving around watching

oneself within
the cartoon going in circles, the Disney world
we all pretend to hate
every thing so nice and fucking friendly
finally ruined the developers go on building the Big Box

boy, that really got me SHOPPING MALLS, I railed against
they are here
the convenience
between driving the kids, Quality Time
all this zooming

I should have
gone surfing,
forgot it all, bird watching,
tangled in this suburban mess
of 7 eleven’s, even here, on this last coast

Styrofoam containers of coffee
the neo nazis
old folks in walkers,
dressed in orange and beige, turquoise and baby blue
there’s something, deeper bugging me

I’m still wanting to make
THAT BIG PAINTING
to combat all this
lost in resignation head in pillow, dreams
of Pollock and de Kooning

skating around the corpse of the body
OK, now breaking through this
I feel I have to start over
then realize it’s all there laid out in front of me
I’ve already done it

my figure full of IDEA, a certain light
it’s there can’t you see it
I draw
the notes each day, pictographs of the images
in my mind at the fore

revolving
revealing the facets
I wake up everyone’s
at the movies
my world

combining the sacred
with the every day profane
can’t get over seeing those
tanagers in central park--
I’m going down

rubbish in my mind
coming out of my mouth
frustration at not being able
to move, blocked by suburban
mind everyone is everywhere

trying to do something
the owl is on the line-- a crow taunting it
I wanted to make a large black and white painting
like I used to make, a painting in the desert
an adventure, a performance out there

in the moon light painting the sky
the hills, the trees
coyotes howling, as I swipe here
across the place, this suburban bringing me down
it brings me down

every thing in the middle
I search for extreme
railing against gods
in the desert extreme
more my temperament

my mind reflected
on the wall
going over and over
Romantic Expressionist
spilling guts, the black video projection

lanterns, swing on tree branches,
lights flickering
the painting remains, looking up
I see the window
the branches, fingered

across the moon
in January.
I met him at the cafe,

a woman, jogging
down the IV street,

yesterdays newspaper
fading in the sun

my friend for coffee,
these middling problems

bantered back and forth
the fog sopping up the sun
then a breeze makes a clearing
days merge into the next
I feel like a intruder here all dressed in black

I make way to the lagoon a penitent like
outcast my cross of anxiety
describing beauty, the stations of the journey
like that snake that crossed my path
I’m still writing of it,

black and white rings,
I saw it again at night
on the ocean cliff
it slithered across the way making its way
to the grass, waves crashing

sunset walk into the trees
so picturesque
and menacing
I’m caught between
the glass of wine

with dinner--
I’m up early, I’m off--
like goin’ fishing
in my youth, I’m off past the suburban fringe
Highway 101, as I remember it,

unclouded, zipping free--
my coffee steaming, winding through Saint Julian
Ranch, hills of gold and green, fog making frame
for what’s ahead, there’s Hank and Michael
asleep in the car ahead, hair in a morning mess and--

Well lets go!
it’s still only 6:30 a.m., off to Jalama, off beyond the gate
onto the sandy road, green hill against aqua ocean
blue and swerve of coast changing my mood
the chewing bulls, their vacant stare

mouths full nod, we stop and make insulting
comments to the big bruisers, the car tilts up and angles
over road ruts , this is the way it should be
what I search for, waves peeling off unseen
naked scene, private glory to match ones soul

looping around the point and climbing
to Conception, through ice plant and drifting sand,
the fog parting and sun
exposing the rich color of blues, greens
in endless variation

of ocean depth,
foliage’s entangling
blown to wild frenzy
ocean surge and whales breaching rhythm,
the smaller point

way below, the speck of black
one realizes are seals
in the extreme space,
we are now enveloped into flowing
along with

the effortless flight of pelicans
in updraft
the wealth of space
and there, over there,
see dolphins! wriggling into deep

beyond capacity
to remember, to tell!

O describe this
amazement
springboard of spirit
red aloe to cerulean sky
and day lit moon rocking

the low horn, seal bark drifting
swept by wind, what is art to this --
adventure, worn out going over
into abstract shape,
that different adventure

in the studio, out there, I sip and could die
the painting, the refusal to die
packing up wiping the turpentine stained
hands, exhausted
fulfilled

the painting tossed
into the back of the van

fairy witch
black crow
and gleaming
aloe
sparkling
on glistening
sea
blown
past

exhausted by
the space
coming to an end
the sun behind, traveling home
to regroup years now of this lucky experience

my ungrateful anger
fear, that I am losing it all, to expressway
Big Box interchange, run over by speeding car
to keep the ongoing
to become that vertical staying power

Big Box, Big Box
to coin such a friendly phrase for such atrocity
in exchange for the emptiness
the moving fog on the hill,
the regal palm

exchanged for parking lots,
so many paved paradises by now
aren’t you tired
the muddy wave approaching ,
breaking over--

NO, I’m not ready for that final disappointment
my black and white world
hurled at you, I’m the witch, the fairy witch
raven, hovering
over the red flower

accomplice to killers of the
red bird bright headed bird
the confused world, my poem becomes,
I verve off
into, cynicism

breeding unhealthy power
surge of selfish want and greed
to stuff the hole, blown out
the missing figure, the flown bird
self lost, gone again

then, in effort to preserve that naiveté
humility
not to step on the baby bird
hatching
now flying to the sky

take away the outline, the captured figure
for culture and idea,
release and free to
beauty of nature,
not this separation we feel

mingling into ground and brush strokes
free mingling, fluid, of
bird and frond
god, the BIG BOX threatens to derail me
but then I say, but why should I expect different?

its everywhere encroaching on my fiction,
regrets
resentments, leaving it behind, my friends
on another road, I’ll see them down the path
worried so, I never even went swimming in the sea

so self obsessed, perverse, and not giving in
tramping the edges, the reserve
watching the cloud remnants of hurricane
El Nino Phenomena
the amazing sunset

Amazing I said, they looked at me like--?
I saw angels wings on high, beauty so intense
each step towards little deaths,
but I can’t keep up, painting against this agony
such beauty, in passing sunsets

then, another, botching the first,
really, so amazing!
caught off guard
I’m going to try,
to paint it again, tonight

Ah! this was the life out here on the edge
a bum style life, backyard--
never tiring of the overlooking view,
Lewis Armstrong speakers tilted sitting in the lawn
oysters on the half shell, the lemon peel

trailing off the edge
the Delft blue of Holland still-life piles of dirty dishes,
left shells, a studio out back, reproducing it all
all those paintings stacked up
the incomplete dream
the slight adventure left,
interior coast, last coast

leaving
the foggy Big Sur coast unseen
in my bitterness
a color stains through this blackness of mind
and I stop and take a photo

a stingy act of reconciliation
act of love
through familiar places
Yosemite
speeding through as doors slam behind me,

tourists grocery shopping, an Amish women buying
coffee mugs with waterfall--
scarves with the view, cute stuff, juxtapose
this to John Muir’s view
speeding past, Deep Springs

I stop and take another photo of vanishing road
into the Sierras
mountains, I love, disappearing behind--
already locked in ice
I’m racing toward the city

through the empty spaces
narrowing the distances
she is flying above me,
high in vapor trail
re-entry makes me feel, I am in trouble

out of step
will they recognize me?