Mid winter, in this great expanse, you walk
Past huge stretches of empty lots, and still
A few spare clouds at nearly half past two.
Today the ocean gives off a faint chill,
And shoots one cold wave, and then many more,
On to fine, white sand. Over near the bike
Shop are vendors–many want to sell you
Pleasure, some hipness, some, curios, or
A crudely overpriced piece of tired shlock.
If you need to be here, you can sweet talk
Death, for the dead are all round; their fame knows
No end. Want your face on a big crappy
Clock? Don’t play halftimes or be a rebel
On the morning news. Don’t get fat. Don’t be
On the game shows or help some old dumb cur
Win a dance contest. When the ratings spike,
Call your dealer. Don’t have your own label
At Sears. Don’t plug your book, with all your
Deep, as-told-to, thoughts on the late night shows:
Be against war, crime, and all the other woes.
Above all, don’t be us. When they find you
In the ravine one morning, you’ll still have
A star out beyond, some distant sparkling,
Something unmet, unheard, not in or of
Us, people moved always by the letter,
Never the spirit. Redeemed, you’ll be like
That ocean just to your left, an inkling
And taste of infinity, and better
We never glimpse or guess at the vast blue
Depths your soul may never have traveled to.