THE HOUSE
In its pine knots the history of Egypt
passed in a second
In its bedrooms a cavalcade of
horrendous grandes
In its back yard, bonfires and prism explorations,
and floating dry cleaner bags of hot air
that stopped traffic
as the waves rumbled their lullabye against
the night cliffs below
and the old Monterey pine brushed its shingles
seeming to whisper, "it's all right. . ."
In its little rooms the big stuff of lives
ridiculously free
bohemian rogues and princes
In its melange of cedar and sea-salt and
dope smoke and pudding cakes
its creaky doors and talking floors
its kneading cats and vagabond dogs
filching fish from the backyard barbecue
In its dark wood sanctuary the voices of Mahler
and Lanza, as if to astonish the ocean,
maybe echo still
and nightmarish Led Zeppelin guitars
tearing the air with acidhead blues
Pained poets and possessed painters
The Duke and his hat and pencil-thin moustache
Dr. Jean the thief and needle-user
Tony and his ivy-covered garage and his books"
and Reesh the Dog and Big Diana
and Clay and Mia visiting, Clay on one of his last stops,
and watching Muhammad Ali whip Zora Foley or somebody
With Kirk in its little living room with the Indian fabrics
on the chairs and the row of theater seats swiped from the Magic Lantern
In its knotty pine walls the history of you and a lot of people flashed
in a second that seemed to elude time
that you owned.
---Charles Bogle |
