Bicoastal Waters

I. Pacific

verge merge boogie-woogie cut and slash
etch edgy board through wolfpacks
into kinetically still black holes
that extinguish all light
a frieze frozen in time and space
'til hitting transparent walls of primordial chaos
I emerge back inside the billowing flickering
ephemeral army of surging Zuma surfers

II. Not

... later, making my way in formal suit
among saturated thickly loaded rushes
of lower East Side disembodies, drifting in brush strokes
of snowy pointillism, this west coast monk --
some times bemused, others bored or fused in funk
begotten of high gravity homelessness, slush, and trash
-- is suddenly besotted head to toe under pixels
broth anarchically splashed by anonymous cabs
randomly passing too close to the curb
(me a castrato, naively near);
fearing an inquisition of sinister grotesqueries
even violence, looming among native macabre birds of prey
not able to navigate sidewalk currents of doom and gloom,
I zoom ahead anyway, pleats jumping between planes
until out of a magic mirror the Fifth Seal opens again:
a white toilet seat (no lid) floats by
and Sir WRaleigh-like -- cloak become board -- I use it
step firm 'til wood and plastic are grounded in concrete
then proceed to the street's other bank, unsure
whether revelation or remorse, geomancy or sewer.


-Gerard Sarnat


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