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Collected Poetry

    (rd king dot net)
poetry and digital art

In California

  County Line 


Heading inland from the north, down 101
through that last flat stretch of highway
outside Camarillo, a simple five
miles an hour above the limit, once again.
Once again from the north, into that barrenness
brought on by agriculture—long, empty fields
looking reasonable but unpleasant.  There is one
fruit stand, cross traffic from the frontage road,
palm trees growing beyond the shoulders and
      nowhere else.
It would seem the fields are ready
to be seeded.  The grade is anticipated
by road signs.

At night the red lanes follow a fixed track,
weaving in unison toward the mountains.  Moving
closer, over and into the long valley where
Newbury Park and Thousand Oaks are growing,
and the white lanes spilling visibly out.
And the red lanes moving on, in.  Past pale
prickly pear in the moonlight.

Down the backside of Conejo Grade.  Past Talley
      Corporation.
Through Thousand Oaks, the first fifty thousand
      people.
Between the tract homes and newly franchised
new-car dealers set in front of the dark hills
and the Coast range on the right, the stables
and artificial lakes, the hiking trails and wealth,
reservoirs.  Lanes and landscaping
increase with the onramps.  And the lanes
are spanned by bridges and signs; the freeway
grows and diminishes, grows and diminishes, grows,
flanked by broad signs with advertisements
for hotels, restaurants, gas stations, amusement
      parks
with seemingly perilous rides.  It is pleasant
on through to Agoura.  And in Agoura
there are more visible stars.

There are gas stations at the Malibu Canyon exit
that are older than the rest—less well-lit
with less impending corporate signs:  red on yellow,
blue on orange, red and blue on white.
Turn the radio on.  Turn the radio on
and the stations cross and waver.  It is too soon.
The valley ends with one more grade to run.

On a summer night the heat will push
out of the basin—sudden engulfment in the dark hills.
A damp, too-used heat like that in a dance hall
pushes out of the basin, unlike the dry heat
in the dark, rolling hills.  It is thick, odorous,
and abused—a curtain of debris, microwaves,
and frequencies.  English rock and roll.
Reggae from Jamaica.  Mahler.  Monk.
Music made in Georgia, New York, Tennessee.
Heat and music.  Heat and music and an industry
where the night thrills itself with big hits.

Break the grade and the stations reach
the radio dial on a broad comb.  They break
the grade flush:  music, news, sermons,
talk shows.  And the view.  It starts here.
Cities pour like creeks out of the narrow canyons.
The houses, the townhouses, the apartments.
Condominiums rise above the occupied hills.
Medical buildings and malls and high-rise corporate
towers and everywhere, lights expressing tiny light.

Interstate 405, 5.  L.A.




 
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