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The
odd offering of Canadian news
sprayed from a San Diego tower
to my radio an hour north by car
raised questions about fact and happening.
Parliamentary debates affect Yellowknife
and St. Jean de Matha. Beirut smoke and
Olympic medals garnish breakfast plates
in Toronto. And here I am in salsa country,
eavesdropping on continental bulletins,
acting as if it must matter to know as much
as I can about anything being done anywhere.
I can’t stop listening to the planet getting older.
Somehow I’ll need this as much as the fruit
and vegetables at Ralph’s Market. Why else
would I be able to tap into the line?
Still, there’s probably a better reason
I keep turning north when I’m so far south
that people walk here from Mexico.
Reports flow back and forth like
weather ridges, high pressure systems,
like acid rain and waterfowl. All in the air.
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Jet
fighter shrieks,
two rigs sandwich me,
a coupe’s tailgating.
In the mirror
my mouth shapes radio notes,
the full blast gone in the truck's wall of sound.
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The
local map reads Winter Hill.
We said, "The woods." To see it now
I have to cross private property.
Behind Sweeney's Pond, near pastures
owned by an old Yankee and a Polish farmer,
chipmunks sped (still do) over rock walls
shaded by generous maples, high firs.
There was moss like green sponge. Crows barked.
One day luck led us to a berry patch,
wild fruit tangled in juniper,
hardly a jar-full, which is what came back
upon learning what I'd seen
between the Irvine Auto Center and Laguna signs,
where the 5 splits to 405—
the sun bangs on plastic tarps,
making a silver piece of lanes meant for strawberries.
Wrapped dirt shines as powerfully as mirrored glass
in bank towers a few exits north of the cattle
and farm workers just off the freeway,
assembling a pipe-grid for sure rain.
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like winter lava
along the freeway,
and on the far ridge
a twin color splash
below a crop of house frames,
raw boards in full sun.
Gliding north,
savoring orange blossoms,
I catch the white buildings,
terra cotta roofs,
and dull shark's teeth
of Santa Ana Mountains
biting the sky.
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He
stops the Sparkletts truck
in front of a palm tree
that looks like an overgrown pineapple
and steps down—
his lemon-lime uniform glows;
the tanned face brightens his
smile,
matching the look on the face
of a woman in the yard,
her red shirt tucked into gym shorts.
She’s been painting.
The water man walks to the side
of the truck and lifts out
a large, clear plastic jug—
in one motion swings it onto
his right shoulder and turns.
The truck is filled with vessels,
each with a sky blue seal.
The back panel of the truck,
all green and yellow fish scales,
shimmers, shimmers.
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This
lady had a big loaf of
banana bread in a plastic
bag, which had to be in Twenty-
nine Palms the next day; her
son at a base there was leaving
for Japan. The postman said
Express Mail didn’t go overnight
to Twentynine Palms, it wasn’t
on the priority list, he couldn’t
promise. She asked about Special
Delivery. No good either. “Well,
let’s give it a try,” she said.
“How much? Ten dollars, okay —
don't crush it for pete sakes.”
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At
the four-way stop on Glenneyre,
a Mercedes, a Jag, and a yellow Rolls
stare at my basic green Lynx.
The ease of wealth deceives in Laguna Beach,
lets me think luxury is not extraordinary.
A miniature composes in my side mirror:
bleached surf-kids wait to cross Coast Highway,
their swimsuits bright as crayons.
He's outside my picture, but I'm sure
the Greeter is hailing traffic this morning,
long beard and staff his trademarks.
Across from the Art Market,
Gray Panthers are in position,
holding placards that shout:
"NO MORE HIROSHIMAS!" "HONK FOR PEACE!" —
and the incredible athletic specimens
gathered on beachside courts
are loosening up for a little hoop.
And the women wear next to nothing.
Sun turns the whole place into dessert,
vitamin-rich, sweet, but low-cal SoCal,
absorbed by simply being here. Here,
work seems unrelated to sweat.
Shop clerks and gallery keepers act as if
they're inside for diversion.
The Hotel Laguna valet kicks back in a lawn chair.
My Catholic-Liberal-Yankee conscience
tells me someone must be suffering for this,
somewhere there will be pain to pay,
but as far as I can see we're all smiling.
