“Every face in this town reminds me of falling down.” – The Murder City Devils

When I Go Back to Pedro

They all look the same, just older. Faces I saw at 14
unchanged but I’m unchained
yet the bonds to the town are intact
in fact I’m there more often than some would like.

Our lovely seaside black hole
swallows
more like a street whore
than some feathery reptile
revisiting Capistrano.

It’s hard to picture
the mighty T-rex
looking like the giant cock
on top of Slavko’s on Pacific,

his deep fried brethren
the lasting legacy
of terrible thunder lizards
in the hearts, minds, and bloated bellies

of Pedran patrons gorging in perpetuity.
Evolution’s a joke
when all we have is this
generation after generation

choking on potato logs,
belching out offspring
to work on the docks
to have money

to have more children
to have future longeys

forever

hens pecking aimlessly
in the shadow of the Vincent Thomas,
that green behemoth of a bridge.
More tyrannous and royal
than the fossils

we too will become.