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A Bag in San Diego |
O great border town nestled between wet Pacifica West & barren Desert East
clinging to America's shoelace
cliffhanging over Mexico South
where countless feet & tires run away from Los Angeles North & desolated
cities of broken dreams trickle their lucky escapees down to the
beautiful styme of San Diego,
the town perched nobly in the Sun in the corner--
O San Diego, where are your bags?
We were 19 years-old with stars in our thirsty eyes scanning
the metropolis for clean refreshment on a brutal
dog-day afternoon of August, Jon & I
perusing the cats & dames on the streets from
open windows of an old Geo Prism rented at $12/day
With the voice of Morrison blaring from the blown-out speakers
causing heads to turn to see two youths With faces full of soul
With dark sunglasses shading the thirst in their eyes
With no aim or direction in the heat of 12 Noon
in the downtown Gas Lamp District--
Me on a cigarette eyeing bombshells in Summer clothes
blonde brunette red tufts bouncing swaying dancing in the hot breezes
expensive purses leaving unwanted tan marks to be filled in at the beaches
-- even the Sun dripped sweat into the Ocean --
Jon driving cruising calmly turning down the radio to listen
to the cheers reigning from nearby Petco Park where the Padres
threw the first pitch against the Dodgers, already with a 7-game lead in the NL West--
O San Diego, where are your bags?
Up to Balboa Park to scourge the folks bother them for a bag of grass it's all
we ever really wanted mingling with all suspect characters
(longhairs, beards or goats or both, bandannas, tye-dye tho rare, sandals tho common,
outfits composed of hemp, et al)
... empty handed scratching our heads in the cooling late afternoon
finding shadowy splotches of area to regroup & replan
conversing a scheme reapproching the Prism:
BOARDWALKS!!!
First to Black's Beach by dusk thinking to perhaps glimpse nude
sunbathers packing their bags & strapping their bras
but no--
incipient circumstances at Black's, all the UCSD
kids long gone for Summer vacation--
& we turned back 20 minutes
later & I walked backwards to the car marvelling at the cliffs & the torrid
waves gracefully bombarding the massive rock walls, thinking
of the surfers who, slaves to the Ocean, could have explained
this particular Nature to an amazed searcher such as myself
but no--
O San Diego, where are your bags?
Over to La Jolla Cove upscale & beautiful at Summer night
men & women without children wearing casual tweed-colored
clothes loose fitting khakis & clean white cotton shirts perhaps a terry cotton
white sweater tied around their suntanned shoulders--
upscale
over our too eager heads no heads to shop around from on the
palm-lined streets fronds dancing electrically against
the neon backdrop of civilization reaching over the darkest
pool of magic in the county--
O San Diego, where are your bags?
In the city of perennial blond youth & trendy teen fashions
intertwined with maritime & biochemical research
galloping coastlines stretching the entire Western border
The Prism rattled over to Mission Beach's two-mile
stretch of boardwalk lit up in the drunk California night
by storefronts headlights & alive with the sound of skateboards
bicycle chains jangling on their way towards the jetty
& Music streaming from various outlets
composing a cacophony of harmonies droning out the buzz of the mosquitoes--
Dozens of pedestrians strolling crossing paths
with our jaded footsteps already exhausted from the sweltering
daylight & now weary with several miles of walking & searching searching searching--
& asking & asking & asking
all suspect characters according to plan
& receiving a menagerie of noggin-shakes & Nos even by
Belmont Park's attractive sparkling roller coaster where
congregations of teens stood or leaned against cars dragging cigarettes...
O San Diego, where are your bags?
Waiting on an endless line for admission to an overcrowded bar?
Skinny dipping in the Ocean at Midnight experiencing the rush of the Tide?
Floating around like lint in the jazzy soup brewed by the plethora of people?
Judging our sullen expressions from the patio of a boardwalk condo
as we naively trudge along listening to the waves crash,
most likely--
O San Diego, your bags are coy & difficult
as I learned & Jon learned finally giving up & in
to the suffocating marine atmosphere the Prism groaning its
depleted gas tank back through the Gas Lamp District to
the seedy motel with a fridge stocked with stolen 7-11 beer
a full game called Experience played with San Diego,
America's
Finest City--
O San Diego, tomorrow I leave you with no possessions to my face
but full hearted full of potential & street lust...
O San Diego, let no bag big or small come between
you & I: blinded by the stars in my ever-thirsty eyes
copyright 2007
JL
Nathan |
