by LJ Frank
hidden shoals and sandbars
somewhere on the Eastern coast
the Atlantic waters warming
a memory shape shifts into a seagull
that glides above the ocean’s spume
while a breeze blows inland
jelly fish wash ashore
their sting hidden
like a hypothermic needle
mixed in with the seaweed
while flotsam drifts in the surf
and a voice in the distance calls
I turn to look
perhaps it was an auditory illusion
it was then I realized
the Sacred Space is on a mountain side
overlooking the Pacific Ocean
but where are you Luis Buñuel
only a surrealist filmmaker truly understands
a post-modern eclectic metaphor
I surmised
watching a predator with a fin
knowing capitalism is a form of cannibalism
the body feeds on itself
does everything come down to completion
alas, no one is too young or too old to be eaten
while thinking they were the diners at the table
until it was too late
the ambiguity of conscience
is an invaluable credit card
filled with artificial intelligence
strangers know where I am
an international bank aching for an act
the controller of my debt in control
what else is there to lose
so, breathing in visions of palms
and a calm sea
I ventured to my initialized coupe
with its scars, dents, and bruises
and with deliberation opened the door
for doors have many meanings
and slid beneath the steering wheel –
my trek towards the Interstate begins
through a throng of sweaty people
mercenary soldiers of passion
at least for the day at hand
Bill of Rights auditors looking
for a betrayal to their cause
to justify their existence
with a feeling of entitlement
a jingoism makeover
an talk radio mumbles and shouts
deconstructing reality is seductive
and the shoreline of taste fades
a rising tide swamps the allegory
and nature baptizes from a hallowed faucet
anxious to make a dollar
cynicism is unhealthy a social media states
and bleed through reality is no longer a sin
so, I drive chanting OM
stirrings of a forgotten smile
somewhere in the windscape of the mind
I-40 westbound
with Santa Barbara in my head
where a Mediterranean climate fills the air
a temple bell rings in self-awareness
and La Casa de Maria
blesses a Santa Ynez mountain
and the monastery of my heart weeps
of what might be true or not
the bewildered cling to trust
as the sun melts the asphalt
my fingers turn the channel to off
with the breaking news in the brain
I listen to the music of my soul
and half-way through the journey
past fields of incorporated corn
evangelicals sing praises
while the Gospelers of Wealth
secure donations in the high desert
to add to their phallic pleasures
vaginas not withstanding
while another soul dies of a misappropriated hunger
ripping
on an out of tune guitar
and another barbed wire retreat
obliterates the meaning of love
for those who were born
in the wrong time and place
and so, I begin to wonder
was Santa Barbara a state of mind
for my wallet doesn’t match
the expense of their local charm
yet, my eyes stare at the horizon
a thought begets a thought
is it still there as I remember
a portal to to the sacred space
or is it part of my imagination
departed from years ago
and now perhaps
just a haunting fantasy revealed
somewhere between a dream and waking up.
