Photo by Oz Seyrek.

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Pacific Coast High

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conjures an ocean of thoughts
in my right hemisphere
some white lines blur orange turning omniscient, prescient:
I can’t tell if it’s a burned out forest monk carrying her koans
or
some black robed angel who her lost her halo at the rest area miles ago
after she stopped with holy water to see the lazy flowers from a parsley family
I don’t know if or when driving along Pacific Coast Highway
there’ll be wild mountain lions, rings of fire, smoke, flooding or the earth’s trembling –
but in the back seat the three year old keeps singing lullabies on the way home
while we’re stuck in traffic again
C. says, don’t take a deep breath.
M. says, keep your phone on
Ginsberg says, pray for everyone
when a child I don’t know tries to hand me an illuminated bracelet through the car window
twirling a flashing whirl, gold eyes guiding a light into these times
for us to find our way through the loosening shadows
and she keeps singing, singing morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing
morning bells are ringing while we watch endless trucks
hauling our dreams up & down the coast
into smoke

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