Prelude:

O what a waste

of a day:

              ‘twas not

     but hot,

     dusty boredom

     all day.

In the summertime stillness

it’s quite as hot in night

as in day.

     There is nothing to do

     but to sit here

     and write this to you.

Just coolin’ around

in the evening going down

to Fred Brown’s.

                         (We use to play

       cards there

       come evening.)

Was gonna

go on over to Bill’s today,

but naw,

              it’s too far to walk.

              Besides,

              I hate Bill anyway.

                                             Naw,

                                                      it isn’t really Bill I hate,

                                                      it’s all those birds he’s got;

  chirpity-chirp

                                                     all day long.

 Jesus,

 Sure is hot.

                                                                                   That damn sun…

“Think maybe I’ll just…

naw

forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Just forget it.

Care for a beer?”

“No thanks,

I just now finished this one.”

Canto I

Lay on the chaise lounge,

poolside;

    sip lemonade.

    ping-pong days.

    O! You white rotting suburb,

          your wasted days,

          your deadly nights,

          your women…

          Concrete valleys

          twist

          in gravel obscurity.

Pave this land with pavement,

build some new apartments.

Some more people will come

to live in them,

pay rent.

     Coat the ground,

crushed rock and tar.

Seal off the sky,

Smoke City ceiling.

In between,

 the people dwell

 in metal-flake houses.

 The earth beneath the street

 produces nothing:

 the air, poisonous.

 In this womb

 we are safe—

 No creature save man

 dares dwell in this place.

                                            Glass and steel wasteland.

On the side

of the freeway

the young hitch-hiker

slept.

Sleeping bag ’n back-pack.

Together,

quietly sleeping

alongside the on-ramp.

College student.

See America.

California,

the Capitol of

the Western Dream.

Lay poolside,

steaming.

Dreaming

of a girl

who

you

once took out

last fall.

Sip orange soda

from a can.

Smell chlorine

hot against

your skin,

hot against

the hot cement sun deck.

Chemical vapor

whirr filter.

I lost her phone number,

anyway.

          (But I remember

 she was beautiful.)

The man arose

from his T.V. chair

to get himself another beer.

He paused at the refrigerator door,

and looked at his wife—

She is a TV wife,

laughing through the telephone.

Her voice,

                 unnatural,

                 electrical.

A moment ago,

she was weeping

at her wayward daughter

but now,

she is laughing through the telephone.

Unaffected.

Hair gleaming,

metal-flake white,

she glints in the hot sun.

Just then,

the man got up,

pulled his sticky t–shirt

off his sweaty body;

feel

new coolness,

wet.

He glanced around,

unaware,

              matted dog hair.

              Went

to the refrigerator,

looked inside—

scratched stomach,

bent down,

moves his arm

in the direction

of something

on the shelf there,

but

stops.

Lets hand

withdraw

to his hip.

Without meaning to,

he reaches out,

grabs a beer,

pops off the top,

raises the can

to his mouth,

sips a large sip.

Turns,

by the stove

in the corner,

closes the magnetic door,

and walks

back to the TV chair,

while sipping

more resolutely,

on his beer.

(Profound deepness,

half-quart can.

on draft.)

He was lying

by the pool

thinking about this one girl

when all of a sudden

he decided to call her.

She said she was fine,

and so did he,

and was she busy?

That night?

No?

He might

come over

that evening?

Her parents

were watching a movie

on T.V.

It was a picture

of a straw-littered field

where

hard dead corn

once lived.

parched,

crackling stiffly

underfoot.

The soldiers

are buried there.

The sky

was filled

with nightmare

vision,

a flaming cross

exploding with anger

moves across

the whole sky,

aflame.

The man

affixed,

head severed,

swore a thunderstorm!

Lightning!

Smash!

Vengeance!

Earthquake.

The City,

known for its earthquakes,

crumbles into fallen rubble.

The sky is choked

with black smoke

rising in final catastrophe.

A mortally wounded

mist-demon,

knife in hand,

stabs blindly,

aimlessly

into the end.

His death comes.

His death comes

amid a blast

of victorious trumpets

Cold-eyed

mysterious death;

Beware him,

his eyes,

cold…

don’t look in them.

Death comes,

roses in hand

with a smile

on his poisonous lips.

Thorns puncture his skin

but he does not bleed;

for he is in disguise.

Death comes

gently and smoothly

flowing out of rocks

and high trees:

a

thick

stream

oozes down the hills

into the concrete valley below.

Your people are not safe,

for death comes,

wielding the moon as a sickle

and it is well nigh the harvest.

Beware,

low the night grows dim—

sleep waters swim,

standing fast up on the rim…

Death!

Plague!

Destruction

by fire,

all a flaming holocaust

of disaster

Total loss.

Just then

the telephone rang.

The mother,

old,

she was not young,

sprang up to answer it.

I heard her laughter,

amid the televised flames—

instant change.

Later

that night,

fitful sheets…

tried to sweat sleep.

Fever dream:

three ghosts;

each

aghast

screaming

on the wind.

I saw them

sitting

on a telephone wire

with the crows.

The night;

pale,

madness

streaks

the moon

multi-aspect

with bright colors

shifting swiftly

in the death sky,

dry run.

 Run!

An instant,

a flash of light

I saw,

in darkness

there,

beyond the camera

past the spotlight,

an ocean of people

in chains—

eyes inflamed,

humanity enraged…

strangling,

struggling,

straining to see.

Eyes sweating,

in severe toil,

marching madly,

swiftly,

wildly,

into the sea.

All eyes fixed on me,

they plunged

into the seething ocean,

the savage sea.

Yellow foam

stained with red mucous

and laden with eyes,

disembodied,

still demanding to see,

refusing to die,

                                 crash against jagged rocks.

  Blind,

unearthly scream,

swirling in fiery turmoil,

ocean jaws,

opened wide—

darkness tide,

whirlpool mouth

sucking irresistibly,

dizziness—

the witch played the card,

we were

                                       swept

down to the sea…

awoke

in screamless terror,

blood

dripping

from

eyes.

Awoke.

Felt a draft

chill the room

as ghosts pass

invisible

into the black—

the black of the darkened room.

Deny them.

turn on the bedroom light,

find the next room

and the next,

envision

Del Monte

catsup bottle

cap loosely fitted.

Quality spots

of red inside

like blood boiling…

                   the bubbles burst

into the air

above the mass,

spattering

the inside

of the bottle

on the bar.

The breakfast bar

sticky

loose marmalade

purple jelly.

An ash-tray,

two dead matches

lay stiff

                            at the feet

of a pile of ash

flicked off the cigarette

which lies

prematurely dead

snuffed out,

denied.

 There’s a box of matches

 over there,

 by the glass—

 the nearly empty

 orange juice glass.

 There’s a large sip

 of orange juice

 lying stagnant,

 overnight…

 A bottle of vitamins,

 red,

  unchewable.

            The sun came

            5:00 am.

Morning came

with her light-golden spectral beams,

hair streaming,

falling in colors,

raining sunlight.

Night wind ceases

and is silent.

A moment…

the ground,

still cold,

damp with night

begins to feel and reflect

a sensation of sun warmth

Shining through us.

All over,

a chill hangs

still in the air

as the last vestige of night

dissolves in the daylight.

Realm of darkness,

land of dream,

your shadowy ways,

                                       give way.

Bright day.

Let us see

if there’s any visibility

expected today.

Remember?

Remember her laughter?

After the movies

last night were played?

Put some water on

the stove.

It’s still a bit cold,

comforting smell

bacon sizzling,

lay lazily,

 still drowsily,

 await breakfast.

Last night,

on the moonlight veranda…

guitar-lute,

tones fall gently

like pearls,

summer rain.

Shhh—

And she was with him.

Warm,

calm,

 she’s quiet,

 soft.

 In love,

kisses fall gently

like summer rain.

Rainbow weather,

I said,

looking at

the forecast.

Or maybe

I just wasn’t

in a good mood

for seeing movies

last night.

    You know,

               I’d better check

                                the newspaper

                                for the expected

 visibility,

 because

 I don’t think

 there was a sunset today.

 But I’m not sure,

 I’d better check.

 Maybe tomorrow

 there’ll be a sky,

 and we can climb

 the hill behind the houses,

 and watch the people

 going to work.

 She laughed.

 She said we would

 have to get up

 too early.

Besides,

who wants to see

the smog roll in,

rising off the freeway

as the heat of the day

grows intensive.

But the morning begins quiet

and cool.

 The night machines

 click off

 as the day ones

 click on.

 Maybe tomorrow

 we’ll have a sky,

 before everyone goes in

 to work.

The freeways are clogged.

Smog, fog.

Cough!

Choke!

Soot,

smoke.

 The smog irritated

 and aggravated her,

 made her wheeze

 and redden.

Canto II

The hills are on fire,

the hills surrounding the town.

thick black ash,

billowing clouds of brush-fire smoke,

the hills

aflame.

The red hills’

hair of yellow

drying weeds crackle.

                                   The terror runs

                                   over the parched earth.

                                   Sun-baked,

                                   cracked,

                                   the fire flies

                                   over the hills,

ablaze.

Angered

by afternoon breezes,

wildly engulf

these dangerous hills,

  Lizards squinting,

  flee aimlessly

  in terror

  before advancing flames.

Reptiles,

insects,

burnt

sputtering

crisp

inhabitants

of these dangerous hills.

Lifeless rolling plains

of hot dead weeds.

Vague perfume

of canyon sage.

Yellow yucca,

chaparral.

drying wasteland;

a cigarette

tossed form a car window

on the canyon road-side,

instantly in flames.

Drive in the new drive,

off to one side:

the newly painted chapel,

adjacent graveyard

hidden within

                      the last remaining mission walls.

A rail fence

to the other side;

an ancient cistern

and a large dry field.

A skeleton pillar

of ancient brick,

not adobe survives

of the quadrangle.

A single pillar

arched, to form

adjoining arches,

shady, cool

to walk in.

The Padre

returns to his cell—

feeling the Santa Ynez wind…

parched, hot dry

in the sultry summer.

This land is barren

harsh,

rocky,

dry,

parched and barren

except the gentle oak tree.

Shade.

From this tree upon this hilltop

the weeds are not so dry,

but seem more golden,

as they randomly

reflect the sunlight.

The ground below,

covered with thorns,

sprinkled with acorns.

The Indians of these hills

ate acorns and lizards.

Sun, Moon, Jupiter, Mars,

Earth, the ground,

powdery with dust,

and hollow burrows

collapsed and empty

overgrown by light weeds.

Finally abandoned

to the long night

of deserted oblivion.

In flames,

blackened beer cans—

amid ashes,

                  waste…

A car on the canyon road…

Alone,

down the winding street,

off into the distant heat

where distant trees stand.

In this wilderness there are no trees.

only ashes,

waste.

The river has died,

it’s dead,

gone dry;

the only water

               is down—

down in the city,

in the valley below.

Your hills are crowned

with spreading disaster.

No loss—

only ash falling gently

like black rain

over the town.

Concrete encasement,

a coffin.

Wipe the looking glass clean

with ammonia, see the sky

choked with brush-fire

smoke.

The land is harsh—

barren,

rocky,

dry—

dry are the winds

across arid deserts;

flying,

blow across these deadly hills.

All is dying,

dry—

annual water

uncertain river,

often dry.

The city can’t see

the smoking hills,

smoking people

taking pills…

toxic wasteland,

scream in agony.

The city—

down in the valley below;

vast expanses of

mobile city streets,

hidden alleyways leading down

to the hidden river…

Go!

Build a highway for your God;

make straight in the desert

a freeway,

studded with many adjacent monuments

to your electric God.

The prophet

hath dreamed your disaster;

for behold your hills

are crowned with red flame.

He hath seen in a dream

the discover of the Lord’s death.

He hath seen

in a pit

uncovered

in deliberate excavation

the Nemesis.

But the city can’t see

the blazing hills,

driving, smoking,

taking pills.

Your city’s hills

are crowned

with red burning disaster.

but no loss.

Only ash

flicked off the burning cigarette

into the ash tray.

The end is beginning—

the creature lies dormant,

prone in the dank pit.

Rich dark earth

damp with night…

Await.

No escape,

for see—

Death comes but slowly,

stalking the advancing shadows.

The night comes on

at first with but a chill.

An evil breeze

swept through

the afternoon air

radiant,

in the warm

sun heat…

A chill.

But…

The city can’t see

the blazing hills—

smoking, drinking,

stalking thrills,

your toxic hills

are crowned

with red burning disaster.

But no loss.

Only ash

flicked off the burning cigarette

into the ash tray.

Ash…

and a new chill.

Few men in high places

may see the fire grow by night,

but only vaguely,

on the periphery,

glowing

on the outskirts

of the Kingdom

to be destroyed,

in the end,

by fire.

Canto III

The field of harvest,

stacked brown-corn rustlings,

circular rivulets of little wind,

small breathing.

Grey twilight

over the fence

and beyond—

the path leading down to the river.

Heavy dust in the roadway,

so active in the heat at mid-day

now settles to rest

as the shadows rise.

Autumn leaves,

the fall of afternoon,

the birth of twilight.

It is approaching Autumn,

Summer is at its end.

Sunlit rays,

still visible over the mountains,

reflect for an instant on the rooftops,

then

are

no

more.

The eventide,

the twilight,

no day,

no night.

Eventide,

a time bewitched,

the time betwixt

the fall of day

and rise of night.

Seen by artificial light—

bright

light

black

white.

Cold,

and hallowed;

a haloed candle

in a dusky corner

of a darkened, ill-lit,

unused garret.

Neglected

withering

October branches

of Summer trees…

Memories.

Leaves,

fallen

into soft decay.

Silent

in their sleepiness

approach

last lazy drowsiness.

Here,

gentle breezes sing

Can you hear them?

Still playing sunlit games

as the night sea swells

across the deepening sky,

still radiant in remembering

the heat of warm sun’s love.

Brown smoke fills their dusky lungs;

fingers infested, saturated,

even so caress

the soft grass.

A mother calls her young

in to dinner.

“Come along!

it’s getting dark—

the streetlights are one.”

But still at play,

they plead, “O please!

Give us five more minutes

will you?

Please?”

“Come along now!

It’s getting dark.”

“But I want to live

just a moment longer…”

Suburb-city engines

winding down toil

daytime engines

click off

as night machines

click on.

Listen!

Grate, pull

grind, strain…

Unusual disturbance.

Important motors

puffing, rumbling.

Gas-powered wheels

clash, grind—

There’s a disturbance,

outside.

The noise waxes

and looms wide.

Crash!

Some trash

tumbles

into the can.

I remember when she said

that the city pays for it…

There’s a dump out there

somewhere in the hills.

Hot sweat glistens.

Listen!

A car down in the distant heat

away down a darkening street

where ancient trees stand.

Foreboding,

Starry,

the day closes down,

draws the shades on her windows

and goes home at last

as the night grows on,

becoming strong.

Irresistible currents flow

onward into the darkness.

Summer night stars

in the sometimes sky,

Hear two people passing by.

He stops

in the street

to kiss her gently

under the streetlight.

she laughs,

hugs him better

as they wander

into vacant shadows.

The great peaceful silence.

Overhead,

stillness.

The stars,

unseen,

keep quiet vigil.

Still I want to live…

Just a moment longer.

Even as the warmth of love

wanes inexorably into coldness,

indifference, forgetfulness

and final abandonment.

Unrelenting currents flow

onward into the darkness.

A century old,

What songs does Old John sing?

So silent in his peace.

There,

by the old North tower

near the stained glass window

beneath the spreading branches

which smile so kindly down

over the high evening grasses

brushed by an evening breeze,

Where Old John lies,

sleeping.

Soft lights,

sheltered lanterns,

dot the windows

in the houses

then

go

out.

All…

  quietly sleeping.

Black magic moon,

in habit of gloom,

in changing of mood,

silver-white wane

haloed by curious mists in the haze,

vanishing

into the mirror of change.

Cycles of new,

full-bloom,

all in blue.

But the city can’t see

any summer-night stars,

driving down the boulevard…

not really very far

to a topless bar—

television skies

prohibit stars.

Midnight witches

in the summer sky

concealed as they go flying by

in a hidden sky.

Take a ride, drive away.

Darkness at the end of day—

obscure,

unclear

atmosphere.

Stratosphere

of choking heights;

O! thou suburb

burning bright,

will there be a sky tonight?

Wanes the moon?

Or waxes,

in fright?

Dead

night

sky,

reflecting

orange light,

translucent

city ceiling.

Invent yourself an eventide—

cast a spell, sail away

darkness at the end of day…

Go! Fly! Divide, decide.

See a new world made of air

make itself a bit more clear.

Am I aware of the sky I’ve cast?

Beware! Beware…

there is danger here

where shadows talk,

where were-men speak

and specters walk.

Where the soothing breezes blow

cooling off the after glow

left by an afternoon sun.

Here,

Where lost lonely shadows

hold ever-darkening sway,

memories play.

Remember?

When all in the midst

of the summertime slow

she left, silent and all alone?

Cold, her mother on the telephone

talking there still as the sunset glowed,

red on the walls,

with the TV down low.

An astronomer once in the lonely waste

on clear nights gazed through a telescope

and watched the heavens fall dissolved

into morning light; but too often it seemed

the stars were eclipsed and obscured

by curious lifeless mists in the haze.

Now as time has changed the view,

thoughts of time past go unrecalled,.

alone with memories of solitude.

Find a new land, make it grow.

Hear the storm, though far away

come in closer, day by day.

TV set

on the blank.

Garbage disposal

in the sink,

grind up trouble,

down the drain.

Incantation:

Sail away.

Stillness…

at the end of

daytime.

Watch the nighttime fall;

casting shadows

over all.

It is approaching Autumn,

Summer is at its end.

Leaves,

of August trees

fallen

into soft decay.

Listen!

Music—

far away

but coming closer,

day by day.

Music!

Sing a travel song:

travel on!

travel on…

Sleeping blooms

of new golden dawn,

chant your lonely

dreaming song:

On and on,

on and on,

never ending

on.

          And on.

                   And on.