I remember California sand
soft, moist, under my bare feet.
That tugging pull of the ocean,
Pacific green and cold on my ankles,
eroding the foundations on which
I stood.
Out there, under bright sun and
royal blue skies, is the mythology
of the surfer and the beach bum and
the casual swimmer.
I collected bird feathers and seashells,
watched with interest as ships plied
the harbor.
I watched as light glittered off
of the huge white dome across the
way, leaving ripples of golden sun
on the water-dazzling.
Off in the distance a horn wailed
echoes ringing through the towers
behind me.
Beach boys and girls flashed smiles at
each other, walking to the shower stalls
to rinse away salt water and a billion grains
of white stardust, to cleanse their bodies
now that their minds were free.
Nearby cars startup and convertibles lower
their tops, music blares from speakers as wheels
turn.
The voices create complex harmonies, layers
of instruments twirl around each other
in stunning consonance.
A lone voice rises above in a startling
falsetto, like some ethereal creature
from a passion play.
In this voice is plaintive emotionalism
and in the melody is genius.
No matter the song or the less-then-poetry
lyrics – you can feel exactly what he
wants you to feel.
He was sacrificed on a stylobate made of dollar
bills and vinyl records, his voice so original
that the world stopped spinning long
enough for it to hear, if not to care.
But he was auditory stimulation among
a hundred thousand other singers vying
for our attention.
The sun sets on the coast. The sand is warm
from the sunshine and the ocean too.
The breezes smell of brine and the tiny sound
of baby breakers chuckle gently
as they fall against the land.
Night is here and the city behind me beckons.
Life goes on in the crowded streets
and tomorrow promises
to be another perfect day.
The Numinous Cosmos 