my day off   i head

for the beach   spread my yellow

and white striped towel

face the ocean

take my book and sketchbook from my backpack

set them aside, a second towel

at the ready, then wade in, dive under the first big wave

coming up spitting salt

and cleansed, i need this, as do the hundred others

on the beach doing exactly the same thing

then, sitting still, a little chilled, letting the sun dry and warm me

taking something to eat from my bag

reading, sketching, lying down to sleep or not sleep

this towel is my island and my world

~

i think about two things, the bad thing that never goes away

though sometimes retreats

and the good thing, which is really a series of good things

each page in the sketchbook reflects one or the other

the first is conveyed in straight lines

hard edges, ruled, measured, exact

the second is drawn in swirls and pirouettes

my sketchbooks accumulate 

a visual history of my psyche, my ups and downs

and unlike my words, are never shared

because—what would they mean to anyone but me

these traces of ink on paper

nothing is spelled out, nothing is captioned

there is no plot and no ending

~

i lie on my stomach, trying to direct my dream

a gull pecks at my leg

the surf sound is loud and mesmerizing

but the sounds of the others nearby 

are dissonant

and their chatter and their music

gets in my head

but, no one goes to a crowded beach to be alone

just as no one goes to a crowded bar to read a good book

we go for the attraction

i plug in, listen to tunes, think of what i'll draw next

wonder what image will come to mind

when the pen hits the page, happy or sad, real or imagined

i can almost say the bad is gone, but i'm not there yet

~

how bad was the bad. about as bad as it gets

it leaves a scar, or, call it what you will

it wrecks you, it never goes away, you know it will never go away

you just learn to live with it and make do

you see it in shadowed, darting, haunted eyes

those who are living the same life of trying to put distance

between then and now, it helps, time helps

you think that by lying on the towel in the sun

it will go away for a few minutes

and, at the same time, you know it won't

but the sun does feel good, there is no denying that

and the gull's peck is real, and it really hurts

and the music coming from a boom box really is annoying

but accompanying laughter of a young family is nothing but heartening

~

later, walking on the pier, the end of route 66

among all the happy, tired people

i feel either happy to be one of them, or sad because of what happened

it's no different than being in a line of cars, lights on

headed to the cemetery from the funeral

while the world goes merrily, or unmerrily, on with its work-a-day business

and you wonder which world is real, if either

at four o'clock the sun is low enough, and the wind chilly enough

that people begin to pack up and migrate east

back to their cars, all but a few hearty souls leave. i am not hearty

but i stay awhile, don a sweatshirt

wrapping the extra towel around my shoulders

to watch the sunset; to the south, tankers at long beach

to the north, malibu, straight ahead, a vast pacific

~

back at my friend's apartment, a quick shower

water is scarce and precious

begin to make dinner, something nice for her

los angeles, city of flat colors, of traffic, of culture

of sixty-three dollar parking tickets

buskers and homeless, frank gehry and google

drum circles and rodeo drive, beverly hills and venice beach

a simple dinner, true, but nice, with wine

with the last light of day

with the cooling breeze, with love, with affection

the bad, it never goes away, but it recedes

like the tide, if you will

but it will be back, like the tide, if you will

for now, for tonight, simple fare and good company