the way to the ocean

the way from here to the ocean
is monotony and i know it
like the feeling of my own skin.

the only way out of here
is to follow the string
of solemn mexican towns
disguised as a boulevard
of lonely palms and neon
struggling to shine
in the dust of the valley
like a procession of dive bars
where the patrons all drink together in silence.

it is the slow diablo crawl
up pacheco pass
in the heat of a valley summer
thicker than still-warm blood
even at night.

it's the sweetly pungent aroma of
garlic and green onions
that are mostly invisible from the highway.

it is only a syllable away from death
and i ought to know better.

watsonville is like downtown fresno
because no one wants to clean it up.
we all just want to make it up the beach.

--



--

On the drive back
I am partially drunk
and feel I could spend my life
atop one of these grass green hills
overlooking the sea
in the bright heat of spring
partially drunk
bellyaching about you and rubbing my head
touching ground with the earth
and releasing my ghosts.

So I breathe
the last breaths
of ocean air
clinging to the scent
hoping to remember it
when I get home.