AFTER A CLASS ON CALIFORNIA LANDSCAPES

              Inspired by Richard Diebenkorn’s Ocean Park series
                                                           
He tries to tell her that tonight, slides of paintings illuminating
the hall, he was struck by how the vertical elements and diagonals,
the framework of lines floating forward, the golden light felt
so familiar. It was like leaving Sepulveda Boulevard when
he would pick up speed; angle his way down side streets,
running past houses framed with fences, cutting in and out
of neighborhoods.  How at corners small streets disappeared, and sometimes,
only dark edges defined buildings. He always ended up at the Pacific. 
Nikes pounding on the sand-blown promenade he ran,
the ocean drumming against the shore.  But she says,

“No!  Ocean Park was San Francisco.  Remember?
We got off the bus for Ocean Beach too early.  Expecting hills,
the flat topography; the rows of fog-hidden houses set on a grid
surprised me.  On a short street near the beach we found
a grocery store stocked with pickled beets and onions, Russian
newspapers.  We bought beer and pirogues, then crossed
the Great Highway and spent that afternoon in the protection
of a dune, watching the Pacific turn from green to blue, to grey, then
to black as the sun set.”

February 2009

WHAT I WOULD HAVE MISSED

              Inspired by Edward Ruscha’s Sin

That boy will come to no good in the end.  Maybe, but
he was good in the beginning. Exuding this James Dean
persona, he was irresistible.   He didn’t talk much, but
I didn’t want talk. It was enough to lean into him, press
my face against his back, feel his nipples harden
under my palms.  The wind and full throttle throb of his bike
blocking all admonishments.

It didn’t matter that he had a girl friend. That night
on the golf course the air thick with insect sound, the
sky sprayed with stars and us, folding and unfolding
into each other convinced me he would leave her. 

I ran wild that summer: staggered into work late,
hung-over with love; broke curfew; just about broke
Mama’s heart.   Some would say I lost my bearings.
That’s what you’re supposed to do at seventeen. Otherwise,
wouldn’t life be like always eating the olive, but
never drinking the martini?