going back down
Kensington to Altadena
California North to South
to work on the house
collect the mail
visit friends
see some sights
says Chaz
wanting to be
not overwhelmed
“Don’t burden me
with itinerary”
and Kristina
bouncing everywhere
the present and the past
together again at last
we drove up Christmas Tree Lane
that world class display
we also want
to see the lights
at the Mission Inn in Riverside
still up these last few days
I want us to stop first
at Centro Basco
the restaurant on the way
a trip in itself
I love Basque food
I want the oxtails
this is where
Shirley and I
spent our last
Thanksgiving together
when she still could almost walk
they helped her
to and from the car
I drove up close
the dinner itself was perfect
she chatted with the waitress
owner daughter
she reminisced her first
dance teacher Pedro Ilisastegui
“He’s Basque!”
“I know,” said Shirley
they treated us like family
this time Kristina, Chaz
my Daughter her Husband
and I
I want us to retrace the steps
of memory
and love

“Being on the wrong side is quicker.”
People toss these off as squibs.
I can’t write them down fast enough.

The context:
Driving up to the pumps for gas.
I say,
“Aren’t you on the wrong side?”
You say the aforementioned above,
and I end with the Zinger.

See how easy it is?

You go around the car ahead
because the one in front
has left a space.
You drive through a narrow passage
that would have scared me into waiting.
You younger generation you
you drive with more assurance.
I’m content
to let you drive
or as we might have said
those years ago
to take the reins

I could save my receipts
and make a graph
of fluctuating costs
and get the government
to give me money
to do the study
I’ve already done
that tells us
nothing new

you said
go this way
and straight on ‘til morning
I knew you were going to say that
I don’t know how I knew
but I knew
I think it’s because
we all went to school
and we all
can read

driving down the road again
toward Highway 5
and south to Altadena
halfway there
Kettleman is waiting
and so am I

passing on the hill
the rows of wind machines
we still call windmills
to turn into electricity
always reminds of
the President of ex
who made up and said
they’re killing the birds
I don’t see any bodies

I say,
“I need to mark my calendar.”
You say
why?
Because
if Renee Fleming has read my blog
she’ll invite us backstage
to say
“Are you the one?”
and I’ll say
“No, you’re the one.”
and Kristina says
“Your vivid inner life”
and I say
“I glow from inside”
and Chaz says
“Your work here is done.”

“Look at the weather, Dad.”
“I see it,
on both sides.”

there they are again
those ordered mounds of earth
lumped rows
what they are
we still don’t know
after passing
many times

condescending
means going downstairs
in prison

I smell the steakhouse
broadcasting the delicious
to lure us in
the cows outside
on the hills
so you know
the meat is fresh

strange machines
along the road
conveyor belts
dropping into piles
growing neatly
a gravel pit I think
there’s always construction
going on
somewhere

the tumbleweeds
are almost ready
just itching
for the wind

on the road again
singing off key
making up new words

on the right
a flag
almost bigger than the house
we know who lives there

stopped off at the corn maze
never been
said late in the season
saves the cost of harvesting
eat as much as you want
they didn’t know me
I cleaned out the place
they took down the sign

Don’t think that everything I write
is true
verbatim
writing lets you
put down
any whatever
I don’t even know
anymore
what’s real

the fog is creeping
closer
I remember the movie again
the Trollenberg
I try to penetrate
the mist
to see
the Crawling Eye

rows and rows of orchards
organized with discipline
to force a harvest
propagandized
as food

we’re apt to see the lake again
that new old endless lake
it’s been raining
but the earth absorbs
a few more miles
and we’ll see which

if I write something down
that isn’t good enough
to keep
I’ll remove it
from the blog
before it gets the chance
to maybe prove me wrong

it’s fun
this riding writing
I’m on the road again
getting closer
to something

In the grain
that doesn’t just mean
crops and harvest
or the stripes in wood
or leather shoes
or alcohol
everything
can always mean
something else

stopped for break
and food
Kettleman
Now our usual
Denny’s
sign on the door
Limited Menu
I guess New Year’s
cleaned them out
we order from
truncated and diminished
no more chicken
the last two hamburgers
and I had steak
medium rare
better than I expected
Roberto our waiter again
he remembered us
we remembered him
talked again about his car
and upgrades
we’re always glad we stop
with friends there
you don’t just drive on by

I see a house
isolated
on a hill
power cables
going grudgingly
to just that one
some people like
to live away
isolation has its allure
I think sometimes
attracts me too
but not for long
microcosm’s just too little
I need people
I can’t live
with just myself

we’ll go
into the Chevron parking lot
change drivers
I’ll put my pen down

I’m in withdrawal
when I was driving
I wasn’t writing
the possible squibs
flew by
into the lost distance
writing’s a drug
I didn’t have my fix
then we changed again
I was returned
to the back seat
but it was too dark
to write
now that we’ve arrived
at the Altadena house
I sit in my chair and write down this regret
so much of life is loss
even words
but my notebook’s open
pen in hand
like vaccination
and I’m back
you didn’t even notice
I was gone

I can’t recover words I lost
I tried to fix them
in my mind
didn’t work
and they were good
that much I remember
I put another cartridge
in the pen I ran out
I’ll buy another notebook
this one’s almost up
I guess now I can share with you
another of the ways
to keep things going
you should try it
let me know