The last K-Mart in SLO county

When I was there last I couldn’t find any soap
And the garden center was dirty concrete
With a few wilted things denying their names
Mostly clay pots with the sun’s face repeating
And a memory of looking at a shelf of King’s
Most recent horror novel with my mom who was
A very big fan of his but hadn’t read anything
Since The Stand and we looked at the cover
Clearly seeing two different things at once
In the sweet forest floor scent of the bicycle tires
We walked the linoleum from t-shirts to toys
And to be honest I don’t remember anything
We ever bought there beyond what I begged
For most convincingly: the tender purple oval
Case of the Tamagotchi

If it doesn’t spin it’s not a world

This was when the 76 ball was still spinning on its pole, with its station squatting nearby. During
the summer, the bay doors would stand open and the black loops of rubber automotive belts
would make a repeating lace inside the shadows of the building. There wasn’t any AC, just a few
fans hanging over the gape of the garage. Inside the station, the vibrations of the swamp cooler
on the roof above made it seem like all the candy bars were alive and humming at you. The
heavy puff of refrigerated air from the coolers with all the soda in them was enough to make you
want to take one in your hand. Your money would sing to the sweets through your cotton pockets
in your jeans. The money and the sweets would pass each other briefly and then you’d be richer
and poorer at the same time.

An out tide

How the crowd of a whole bouquet listening to us
Having our simple brutal arguments over small
Hurts and slights somehow becoming this falling-
Out from under us the lack of buoyancy a wave
Waving away leaving sand and absence and us
Talking at the table the very still life the daisies all
Droop now and some of the flowers are indistinct
But the anemones are perfect in their heads
Dreaming of the ocean and the real living animals
That share their name because of their likenesses
Sitting at this table dreaming of the Pacific but
More about how that ocean isn’t peaceful
Not where we’re from when the sea recedes only rocks
Remain somehow still sharp underfoot despite
That weathering when the water whispers to them
And we’d go out into the rocks and there
All those sea flowers closed up on themselves
As if they knew the children would be coming
With their index fingers out first for pointing
And then pressing quickly in to watch them weep