Late summer and the plants are on their last reserves,
I'm filling my time more than there is time,
Time to be, to see, to be seen,
To make a difference in a community,
To make a difference on paper,
On everything and nothing in a blow.
The moth from the porch light
Falls around my shoulders
Like the fog wind foreshadowing
78 degrees from the earths core
and flames engulf the deserts nothingness.
I am absent from this war.
Who is present?
Box wine goes down easier on the third glass
And goes down even easier if the second is interrupted with whiskey.
The mariposa lilies have stopped blooming.
And the crane flies have stopped swooping
The corners of buildings in the late of day and in the crisp of morning.
I can still feel the adobe of the college with my retina
The summer glare against landscaping and trees.
Against man made and natures adaptations to mans presence.
On the hills a few bays drift with the fog wind
A madrones red bark glows from beneath the oaks
And the taste a tobacco stick from the plant pot where I throw
Extra butts from the apartment complex porch
Holds to my mouth unlike the approaching fog.
In the night though it is Oakland.
It is Alice Street with 2.5 clouds of fog descent hovering above
The street
Like lost Kierkegaardian angels.
The tenant whose loft bed I helped construct is off to
The ruby room for a night cap.
And I am off to a bowl of dried pea soup
Among the litter of projects that is my room.
The sun sat beside Tam today
Filtering into the hills constructing Lafayette,
Constructing Orinda, such that they were all
Separate
Distinct shades paper cut outs and purple haze.
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