California Haiku

1

The morning fit with fog —
Morro's stacks and stone
just barely visible

2

Tide goes in and out —
never the same,
always the same

3

Standing on rocks
waiting for the tide
to go down

4

Sketching the ocean,
my fingers wet
with charcoal

5

Felled by beer,
I pass out while it's still light
in California

Misc. Haiku 31-35

31

Flushed Rhine has risen
To welcome our arrival
In the wine-land

32

Skyline sky,
Skybleached sky.
How many times I will describe it

33

Coin empire,
You’re running out of coins—
Guess how I paid for you

34

Sky more blue
Or clouds more white?
What haiku at this height?

35

Heels on a cobblestone street.
Oh, I can’t help
But looking

German ‘Scapes

igrass blue grassand green on the hillone an artist has seenmemorialized, made famousprotected & infectedwho sides along it now as a creekwishing he’d be quietbefore trickling intothe reservoir iiblue skies, blue skies & holycumulus not besetby even an ipod as it gathers          water to sharewith the terra cotta villagestuck in song below iiidanger signs danger           old trainsheathed … Continue reading German ‘Scapes

Vegas

Everyone debauched but everyone a virgin in some way.  You can’t have tried everything, you can’t have tired of everything.  Something to come back for, something to save for next time, when you’ve got more money, some savings to play with, and hopefully better luck.

There’s a premium on everything, and nothing is free.  Not even luck. Luck costs money.  Luck for a buck?  Maybe the stars are free, but good luck seeing them through the neon broil. Maybe it’s time for a drink.  Maybe it’s time to skim some winnings, to cash out, to double down, to parlay, to bet the house, to count some cards.  

Good place to come for a birthday.  One you don’t want to remember.  Just cab doors opening and closing.  Croupiers changing shifts, cleansing their hands of the table and all the bad luck that came with it.  Cashiers sitting behind bars.  Chips in their neat little stacks of hundreds or thousands.  The peaks in the distance.  The hotels standing and stretching in the hot, dry desert air, the sun not far away.

Gathering chips for their bets, trying to get free drinks, trying to get comped.  A generous mix of Filipino, white, some blacks, you name it, a few Koreans, the new wealth Chinese—cabbies called them whales because they were big fish, big betters.  Old and older.  A bunch of kids crawling around doing god knows what, more likely to get kicked out of the casinos than anyone else because they don’t bet.

Mafia types—Skyball Chibelli and Baba, hoping the croupiers don’t look too close at their money.  Cabbies who went to high school here.  Eighties music, light shows, five-dollar minimums, champagne bottles, sixes and eights, Manhattans, Coronas, the hot sun, no clouds, bellmen looking for tips, towel boys looking for tips, everyone looking for tips and some people giving them.  The whole place like an octopus but with more arms, looking for anyway to get its hands on your money, and when it does—bang!  it pops its barb into you like an unexpected sting ray, whether you are an expert or not.  Here, no one is an expert.  Experts get beat up and know better...


Vegas never closes...