orange crate world

i want to live in a world

that looks like an orange crate illustration.

a blue-sky-pillow-clouded-citrus-orchard place

before the slow flood of asphalt

fed the rain of plastic

that moistened

the seeds of dystrophy

germinating in the cellar

of this gimcrack century.

when i could see the mountains

and plunge my face into snow melt streams

-and drink my fill of sweet july

an alternate california

more like moorish spain

or san bernadino in nineteen twenty five

with the scent of orange blossoms in march

and snow gleaming on the san gabriel mountains

it's 11:30 am,

the southeast sun flooding

through the window

hits toasty terra cotta tiles

i'm a cat; and that sun is luxurious

so i roll over and stretch my paws 

and then -it's the year, 1047

and this window sill is high above a great library

in cordoba, al andalucia

but i can still smell the orange blossoms

in the courtyard below

and see the snow on the sierra morena

over the rooftops of the city

i hear the river, the wadi al kabir

hissing past the ancient roman bridge

ah, this sun on my flanks

i blink and yawn, (i'm still a cat)

and then......

-i'm my grandfather, joe chambers

playing canasta

with douglas fairbanks and mary pickford

in the clubhouse at lake arrowhead california in 1926

they're here for the mountain air,

i'm here for the power company

the piney breath of june

wafts in through the window screens

we sip our sweet iced tea

and doug and mary win this afternoon

after the game i doze off on the wide veranda

and wake up on route 66 forty years later

driving a corvette up through the canyon

heading out from san berdoo

hey buz, wake up, we're coming in to barstow

and i feel like a hamburger