Speaking of times in twangs of alien regions
Which share memories of months and distant smells of dust
and oil rising from the black asphalt hours before the rains
California is the vat of raw alloys where grand children
Meet each other in jobs that make no sense and compare notes
Over black, tasteless coffee about what it was their grand
Parents were saying, something in code that firmed up their back
Bone and brought mists to their eyes.
We are too many years past the expiration dates of our lives
To think of parachutes when it's autumn by the Pacific Ocean
In a city whose best boasts are sand gun boats, warm air and
Cool breezes turns into a generation of rasping sighs in lawn
Chairs nursing drinks under tourist’s umbrellas in the neighbor
Hoods we moved into three decades earlier in expectation of
Making a mark on a locale of fronds that was as unknown as
Anything we wanted to do with our lives.
It's about gloom and rain and love of defeated weather that
Is a tempest we brave going out the doors of our homes.
It's about being sorry for the rich for being so pathetically
Well off when integrity is the only thing on the menu.
In coffee houses in motels near county fairgrounds, dealing
With degrees of English and slants of the camera's eye.
It’s about the loneliness of standing in the same place
Long enough to see prodigal sons and daughters come home
With news of the war, a sinking feeling that gun boats
Are not enough.
Wondering what in the universe makes sense when you're
Bored beyond despair and philosophy is now a cable channel
Broadcasting into the clouds until everyone returns from
The beach, from the water of laughter from rivulets that
Comes in many streams, the language of joy.