California

The land that lay directly behind me as I painted this distant view from a lonely rolling ridge on California’s central coast belongs to none other than Neil Young, and having learned this I couldn’t help but recall a recording I’d recently heard of him singing the old Woody Guthrie tune This Land is Your Land:   As I was walkin’, I saw a sign there And on the sign it said “no trespassing” But...

He burned hot and bright like a distant campfire, like candlelight. He’d laugh his howling little cackle that pulled you into his slipstream as you made your way along the path, down the makeshift rope, repelling over the edge of the cliff and dropping weightless into the crystal cerulean waters of the rocky cove far below. Everything made him laugh. And almost everything he laughed at led you to math, calculating the odds of survival....

They were married here Beneath the cypress And my only job My one simple job Was to gather up the scene Many months later And weave it together In humble cotton Beneath the surface Of the paint So I set about collecting threads…   I found unceremonious tatters of silk ribbon hanging from the boughs I found tourists eating sandwiches in eleven different languages I found needles scattered along discarded railroad tracks I found the...

We lived like kings upon the earth Our castles made from the remains Of giants slain On the higher mountains   The weary travelers wander by on the path They carry almost nothing These ascetic wanderers With fancy European gear And so little of it at that You have to wonder Why do they deprive themselves so? What sins are they trying to atone for?   We arrived here ages ago Or maybe just days...

Walkers, joggers, and yoga bloggers. Bikers, skaters, likers and haters. Selfie seekers acting the goofiest and shady ham-radio enthusiasts. Car sleeping, still drunk, greasy tattooed bass players grumbling out car windows at bright eyed white shirt spring break baseball players who are invisible to the chain-smoking plastic chair and card table dark-eyed novelist who instead zeroes in across the street at an upstairs party for real estate tax evading campaign slush fund grovelists.   California...