I've watched ants trail the pale moon
shadows hung by fluorescent bulbs;
moths caught in cobweb skies

tend to flutter 'til daytime
serves them up for Continental breakfast.
Cloudy California mornings taste like cold batteries

half-full in the fridge and slowly draining out.
Bleary headlights from last night
have all sobered. By seven,

I can't feel my feet in the crumbs
of stone shoulders
over-conglomerated in support

of our western shore --
just the latest cove
to soak in a sunrise.

Morning congestion is rotten
yolk inside a cracked egg;
slowly it seeps through every fissure

pocked across this town. Byways bend
where a cement slab stabs the sea
so unpleasant waters are kept

at bay; here the splotches of seagulls form
a rope-less canopy enwound in shoe-string
revolutions that loosely swoop

squawking tangles towards a gaggle
of old men frocked in gray wool
but parceling out their paper-

thin wafers to appease frenzied masses,
even though a nearby sign states
with white and red paint,

clear as a blue day,
Do Not Feed The Birds
because our latest findings show

that their population could grow
beyond what we want
our natural environment to harbor.




edited 07/06/08

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