Bi-Coastin'

L A X terminal, waiting on a flight to Newark.
No one uses deodorant, locker room funk and rolling suitcases.
Tonight I’m steady people watching, an intergalactic observer
soaking up the mostly non-local color. So many different nationalities
waiting at these gates, characters from hundreds of stories in different languages, sitting
like a Rainbow Coalition in faux leather seats, reading Us Weekly and USA Today.

Could've sworn a man speaking one of the two major dialects of Chinese yelled

“lesbian!” in a moment of English clarity. Scottish grandma offers
a candy cig to a repulsed granddaughter, too young to realize it’s not the real thing.
Off duty yuppie in a suit, rumpled slacks, slumped down, Corey Hart nighttime shades

because his future is so bright. Fred Schneider in Buddy Holly glasses says,

“This is going to be fun,

this is going to be fun.” Poindexter in skate shoes reads Wired,
the cover story posits whether Craig’s List has been the source
of one too many dead hookers. Inquiring technophiles want to know.

My father sits breathless; he can’t walk five steps
without his stomach acid Santa shooting back up his throat chimney in retreat.

We’re going to visit family upstate. Albany in August, humid and damp. Sunshine shinning

through chinks in grey skies.

Bugs sound like buzz saws and sci-fi laser fire after the rain.

Butterflies flutter freely

without fear or worry about droplets weighing them down.

Nameless birds in the distance call to their children or lovers.

Cottontails scurry away from footsteps coming off

porches of multi-million dollar manmade

intrusions in this Endor-looking landscape. Simply put,

it just all makes me want to smoke pot. Nature encased in a burning Zigzag

and that's paper, what’s paper but trees,
these giant arbors reigning over this land
long before the people who own them now.
Just want to sit in their shade and feel my mind sink into a foliage-laden oblivion.