on the beach (1959)

if you're along the California coast
and once slept on Maverick Beach
just beyond the high tide line
under a black sky with twinkling stars,
as the strong moon tugged at your nerve,
you must know it's north of San Francisco
south of the Columbia River.

naturally there are camp fires kept active
with collected drift wood as the guitar players
congregate, listening to the ocean surf
and the sound of flutes and drums
chasing organized religion back to the frightened city.

a bottle or two is passed.  marijuana.

sparks in the air spiral near a face, disappear.  what else?

a random parking of vehicles, sleeping bags
with out-of-state plates, seekers of alternative
universes, and a bit of food held by inquisitive
hands sporting a grateful smile.

a question falls into focus.

meditation on the beach.

a fine wind blowing on the beach.

on the beach.  on the beach.  on the beach.

simple
number 623 is stenciled in white on the conning tower of a lone submarine
diving into the sea by the written direction of the Lord Mayor of Melbourne, Australia,
not far from the deserted roadways of his city center.

empty shadows climb the corporate ladder, which leans soundless
against one wall of illusion.

The nearby trolley tracks are empty, while radiation of a lethal type
speeds full steam ahead, entering the station without noticing time.

the stopped clock reads midnight.

A sign by the cement steps:  "THERE IS STILL TIME, BROTHER."

(1959)