Notes on Leaving

Expansive broke the morning,
bursting from obscurity.

February in Southern Califonia
presented itself never so succulent-
sweet in the griefless leaving-
or so calculated Cassius,
lately, Stately, licensed
in what once was "just a job",
now quickly converted
to more proud profession
in his much stimulated
and marauding mind.

Northerly pointed his career's compass,
unwavering toward Sonoma-
saying sionara to mechanized
sprinkler system lawns,
the unpleasant rash of
tract home complexes,
gravitating toward where pine
and oak grow green by rain
and the tenderly tended vines
gnarl themselves to plump
the wine grapes to maturity.

Quite Through the Deeds of Men

Cassius hunkered into
his coats up-turned collar,
smilingly as possible
turned down seedy drug
offers on Haight and cogitated.

Today, to him,
the city seemed
convoluted,
concentrated-

with possibility,
with poverty,
with piquant potions
stirred and stirring.

Joy was drenched
the day long,
swathed in blithe
onshore mist-billows
blowing in above large
and patient sharks
prowling the cold watered
sea beyond the bridge-

their devouring pea of a brain
stomaching the hunger til
the swift-strike moment
intersected with the arc
of their efficient cruise.

- and Cassius ambled on,
smoked, nursed his heart- a bruise.

Location, Location, Location

All swoony mooned
our curious comrade Cassius,
recently romanced by
various head-hunters,
flown in for interviews
and supplied with rental cars
and hotel rooms.

Controlledy cruised he as
out before his wet,
carressing eyes rolled
the old, Northern
well-greened,
oak-dotted Californian hills.

Happy, cud-chewing bovines
idled there as whizzed he by
most automotively.

Too long it seemed he'd
roamed the sun-battered
Southern 'scapes, with
chapparal, boulders and
the blight of rampant and
ugly, modern tract-house constructions
accruing little interest in his
drought-dried imagination.

Fickle Santa Ana fed
the rogue fires and
sent him scrambling
toward the shore
one time too many.

Now his penniless thoughts
marched out like little,
revolting tin men,
sought to surround themselves
with other elements,
cooler climes and
a surfeit of blood-red wines
to fuel their song-starved pens.