Past the railroad tracks
around the tents, tarps
bags closed to noses
metal poles drip wet
gravel tar oiled wood
fences chain-link flowered
concertina wire dancing
waltzing in the dust
barbed hooks, tons
of massive steel box cars
ringing of crossing bells
corner of Woody Road
and Bob Boulevard
tall walls with no windows
crows coming down for the night.
Waterbeds for the dead heads
smoke on and rhyme on a dime
ocean lapping at the door
under trestle down to the beach
creature returns to the shore
from the fires the smoky land
strongest survive in water
adapt quickly or not at all
the tortoise and the trickster.
When spirit wants loose
fury shoots craps with angel
for scraps of your soul
passing over buried treasure
the X intersection of forward
and backward slashes
of dashes you can’t recall
the night spent in blackout
in a swell that’s travelled
a long ways to this wave.
The Coming of the Toads 