The Pacific pitches a fit behind me as if someone in Japan snapped their end of the sheet and fired a rolling riot of wet over the earth to crash into the edge of Laguna. Laguna splays out from the sand between my toes It seeps and spreads and the piles and agglomerates from the beach to the boardwalk into the streets and through the shops up, up over the steep hills and out through the canyon road. I'm stretching my eyeballs I'm trying to see through it all Straight, right on through, across the continent all the way home to Connecticut. That's when Laguna stops being Laguna and I see it for what it is... the edge of America. Coming back toward me, from the east, and beating back my sight right into my eye sockets, is the whole of history. An impenetrable phalanx A phalanx of hominids but its not a parade. There's no order to it. Just the chaos of America. All of it. The Chumash, Pomo and Salinan bleed right through the Navaho and Apache.
A Collection of Poetry