sometimes even putting a nickle into a parking meter feels fairly good

precious tumbling grenades inside my head,
I’d rather grow roses than self-pity,
but sometimes it really begins to rock
and I have visions of housetrailers and
hookers slipping into giant cracks of earth
just south of Santa Barbara.

I guess what really makes me feel better
are the truly sane:   the motorcycle cop
in clean shorts who gives me a ticket and
who can ride away on two wheels like a man
who never had an itchy crotch.
or the Southern California Gas Company man
with false teeth
who can knock on my door at 8:15 a.m. and
light a Christmas tree with piranha’s teeth.

the real miracle is the thousands of tiny
people who know exactly what they are doing
in such an exact way.

I used to look for sustainers in higher
places
but the higher you go
like Plato or God or memories of Marilyn
Monroe
the less room there is to put your feet
down.

check it some day.   you’re driving down
the street and here’s some guy hanging onto
the end of a hydraulic jack
wads of bacon grease dangling from his gut
and pewking mirrors of static dementia,
his eyes are stilted and his fingers grip
inanely to a wilted postcard from an un-
discovered leper 30 miles outside Paris,
but he holds like an ultimate truth, and
you put it into second
check the rear view mirror and think,
yes, I can make   it, and you light a
cigarette with one hand
turn on the radio with the other
and let it roll along like that for a
moment.