Midnight on the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz
I leave the Carousel Hotel’s sweet balcony shelter
lured by the ocean’s endless purring
rumbled perfection of pristinely
white salt foamed waves frothing silk
drawn to the moonlight’s calling
a lighthouse of nocturnal affection
beckons me like Hansel and Gretel
I trail a map of memory stones
towards home through the wandering
longing of writing I abandon fear
safety nets and cast caution lines aside.
Because it pleases me and amuses my muses
I sneak a Margarita to accompany
me on this risky excursion
to breathe in the ocean’s secrets
across time and sand
enormous dinosaurs ran
and miniature crustaceans
grasped the microscopic evolving
forms of tiny swirling creatures.
I think of what writing is and does
I think of why we disrobe in bare
raw startling posts because
the divine sublime lives in us as us
a rose clear heart bows namaste
ascend in us as realized truth.
Imperfectly perfect beings
we trust in eventual good.
Life’s mirror glass reflecting
us as variations of one
we carry aspects of facets
of angles of infinite diamond.
Pressurized, melted, molten,
born, destroyed, reborn
ancient mystery discoverers of wonder
reformed as poets and pearls
from pain’s gritted teeth.
It’s the irritation that the oyster seals beneath
reheals it’s wound repeatedly until the hurt
transforms into a serene sphere of knowing
iridescent silky silver baubled treasure
of acceptance’s gleaming quiver
and haloes of healed time
sail the winds like Aurora Borealis
rainbows the sky magically.
We wade into unknown experiences
with oceanic pride and rupture
diving for abalone mother of pearl wisdom.
Richard Brautigan loved abalone
for the slow savory communion of cooking
with a good friend in the evening
he was so often lonely and I can relate to that.
I’m writing with my electronic pen
my old school digital finger
with the phone screen set at the lowest mark
with half-eaten remnants of food parked
in corners wedged in wrappers and soda cans
on rustic picnic benches for company.
There’s a man forgaging nearby
rustling for food or recycling.
Initially I think he’s my witness
in case of trouble, but then rethink
that emergency button
I realize he doesn’t care about me
because no one cares about him
he probably won’t stop to help if I was in trouble.
So I brave on thinking I’m on my own
as always trying to right my life with words
with sterling waves breathing liquid sonic
muses crashing on candied tourist shores
where anything can happen after closing
the flashing showroom doors drop
trap doors invisible on the carnival floors.
I transcend the eerie drifting ceiling
a sea valley of shadows of a medieval evening.
A mysterious fog engulfs vanishing cliff rocks
where empty seaside parking lots
house ghosts and shipwreck docks
they seem to siren lure the lost or forgotten.
Dead pirates and biker zombies
from dark side Hollywood I envision
a band of surfer vampires
as they gloat above me, Lost Boys
hover as holograms in the deserted
amusement park dead silenced of screams
in dreams and celluloid fantastical mist
I brave out delusions mining for poems.
Then a salvation cluster of people arrive
a rescue party of impromptu angels.
They nest on the sand and on the benches
two friends share smoke and reminisce,
and a young couple kiss by the volleyball nets
while the homeless guy continues
his grimy work filling his treasure sack
like a hobo Santa hunting through dumpsters
as if they were hope chests.
The sweet relief of anonymous community
gives me enough cherished time
and strength to finish this
Santa Cruz midnight poem.