FOG IN SILENT RETREAT
A turntable nighttime is abandoned by dawn.
I had jazz, pop, rock, folk going strong in the basement.
A nice Norwegian girl had plans to become semidetached.
She refused to do an inventory of what she was jettisoning.
I was not that impressed by her knees or her red pullover,
but there was definitely something that made her stand out.
A desert dust storm woke up the bathroom mirror.
It did not do anything for the spiritual vacancy that has muddied my palms.
The Norwegian girl would break into humming Strawberry Fields Forever
whenever I brought up how the Sixties were an inflatable bicycle tire
swerving into traffic with too much acid filling the dead zone.
Burma Shave took me on a Tombstone trip when I was still wet behind the ears.
The real Burma put Dad in a malaria funk to beat the band.
He rode boars up and down the mud trails left by the enemy.
When in doubt, I practice Penny Lane on the alto sax.
It always seems to clear my head of so much California debris.
There was a big hole near the entrance of the Valley College library
that made it difficult to keep out crazy coyotes looking for salvation.
I only mention this since I was an Adjunct there for 12 years
and I came to believe that renovations are the curse of modern life.
Between space and a hard place, I keep tabs on the seasonal fog
that is retreating into a YA blog factory threatening to grow into the next big thing.
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