The Road

In the home where I grew up A porcelain monk lived on the kitchen counter Belly full of cookies Admonishing us not to steal Back when the house was full of sneaky fingers   I saw him enter the kitchen one day 30 years ago Something clearly wrong Part of him had vanished Struggling for the words To tell me that my grandpa was gone His father The pastor The preacher Thou Shalt Not Steal...

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...

I was made in California Born in Disneyland With a busted lung And a broken set of wings So it’s been foot on the ground And wheel on the road Up and down In exile ever since To a cold and distant shore Far from the evening palms And citrus mornings Roots bound In the floor of the van Stunted growth With a beautiful view Has been my holy rolling   Double yellow Single broken...

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...