Baker Beach Poems

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The Portal

Green clovers, yellow flowers, in
the dark shadows, a gentle breeze
whistles towards the sea, pine cones
have dropped on the ground floor, in
a world made of demon slush, positive
adepts living on a double planet, a
galaxy that rotates on its side where
everyday it rains gasoline, this world
of dazzling ice and solid rust, where
billions of moons teem with keen alien
creativity, the blue green water coughs
and gurgles systematically next to this
empty beach.
Where a life-force holds every rocky mind
and body together, animating them fully with
the grand tour of blood-red light, sulfur flows,
and blackish meteorites, hidden beneath the
surface of the numberless bronze statues lining
the temple walls, fleeing--the portal to Jupiter's
murky swampiness--starts this journey with a
surge of cloud particles and convoluted strips of
hurricanes, in this meeting ground of gods and
humans, the beauty of earth's creation, as two
bicycles are pushed on the wet sand and a barefoot
lady searches for shells that are a perfect reflection
of the perfect One, the holy run-down condition of the
bridge just behind her.

Burnt Wood

A charred piece of wood lies on
the sand forlorn, black carbon
cracks that seem to meditate,
and are pre-occupied with this
eeire, strange inner balance,
this mysterious attempt towards
an inner monologue, one which
is mostly sensitive and fragile,
which is always found in any interior
space of any recovered and sanctified
emptiness, the burned pieces of wood
charcoal are much smaller than temples
found anywhere in the world, yet their
playful energy allows the observor to
see and learn the complex rhythms of
the ocean tides where the fire that burned
the piece of sacred wood always resides.

The Earth Cycle

The bridge stands like a dancing
bubble ready to pop from its unique
left-turning path, stripped of its waters,
it becomes stranded in strange alien
worlds much like any other kind of planetary
rock, that invokes a much simpler form of
discharged force, which has sunk into an
ocean of dust, now mistrusted and worshipped
until the next divine rescue.

The Storm

The sea is stormy, white flecks,
cover the waves, the wind is cold,
and the beach is deserted, the waves
move forward almost menacingly, a
frisbee just misses me, it's a warning,

indeed, if you are a seperate particle
of water from the sea, you might become
stagnant, you might feel yourself limited
by any kind of time or space, you could feel
yourself confined within a very short area

as if all the oceans were boiled off the planet,
what kind of demon mind could be filled with these
fearsome acid clouds, with carbon dioxide, and this
this searing heat, these lightning blasts make us
stop and think about the dire consequences of our

own veils of misconception, this bias towards these
lost teachings, the tankers keep coming, the
too, the coldness of an approaching war with no liquid
water, reminds us now of the biologically dead.

A vast day

A girl stretches her back into a hardened
yoga posture on the beach, minutes after the park
ranger's jeep sped by on some mission urgent,
the sudden shadow of a seagull darts by, just above
me, some secret interior seeds are being
dropped, the soil samples reveal these curious
chemical reactions, unusual states of breathing, and
the tides of the sea keep coming while something
awful answers me in my impulse towards bleeding
realization, and the bridge still stands and the skies

are so wisdom vast.

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