Space tornadoes

An eye aimed on our galaxy,

the most powerful and complex

radio telescope ever built on earth,

the Atacama Large Millimeter/

submillimeter Array -let’s call her ALMA-

has detected slender filaments,

a kind of space tornado,

near the massive black hole

at the center of the Milky Way.

The tornadoes contain silicon oxide,

whose structure is shaped by shock waves,

and organic molecules such as methanol,

methyl cyanide, and  cyanoacetylene.

A likely means for these compounds

to be efficiently distributed throughout

that neighborhood corner

of the Universe we call the Milky Way.

Is that as beautiful to you as it is to me?

Like the spiral shell of a snail

or the songs of whales and nightingales?

Is that a leaf blower that I hear

outside the the kitchen window,

or the echo of a Tijuana radio station

between Howling Wolf's Smokestack Lightnin'

before the needle drops on Little Richard

telling Lucille if she won't do it her sister will.

Maybe that's the howl of space tornadoes.

Saturn devouring his son

Does the monster
feel remorse?
Or does he eat it,
ground with salt
and black pepper,
on his meat?

Morning

There are no

sidewalk sleepers

in this town.

Maybe someone hiding

in the bushes until

some dog-walker

or jogger is concerned

and motivated enough

to call the authorities

at the Police station.

Perhaps while sipping

a sidewalk latte

or decaf cappuccino.

Even dogs have parks.

The red sun rises

over all of us,

the feral and the

housed, alike.

what sparkles on moonless nights?

Round and round

the mulberry bush

the monkey chased

the weasel… Is the bush

the same as the tree?

Like the ones they planted

across the street from

751 Appleberry Drive

where the only time

I saw my mother cry

one night, sitting against

the trunk of a mulberry tree.

They grow really fast

which explains why they

were planted next to the walkway.

To me, they were trash trees,

if you tried to climb them

the branches broke off,

even the the thick ones.

I found out later they have

the leaves that silk caterpillars eat.

And that redeemed them.

I like silk. I have some made

from their lives and efforts.

I have eaten the caterpillars

after they were steamed out

of the cocoons from which

silk thread is spun.

They taste like potatoes.

I don’t know why Mom

left the house that night,

except that it had something

to do with Dad. She wouldn’t say.

Just told me that she was okay,

go back home. I didn’t go home,

I went out into the dark schoolyard

and looked up at the stars.

I could see a lot more of them

away from the streetlights

and houselights. Starlight

and the black silhouettes

of oaks, bay laurels, and madrones

the kind of trees whose branches

don’t break when you climb them.

Sundown

The sun fades over

the horizon.

About the same

as when T. rex

looked up

from whatever 

she was eating.

Probably.

Might be

a few minutes

plus or minus

in the planet’s spin

from dawn til dusk.

Does that comfort you?

It does for me.

That’s the moment

for cocktail hour!

Have a Martini or a Mojito,

Manhattan or a Margarita.

Iced Tea or just

a sparkling water

with a slice of lime.

We’re still here.

For another day at least

and the question

as always is…

what are you gonna

do about tomorrow?

I think God got bored

waiting for T. rex

to figure out something

beyond how to get

a few hundred pounds

of meat in her belly.

And eventually

we came along.

with our slings and arrows,

our violins. Bronze.

Ferraris. Feather pillows,

Birthday cakes.

Prayers and kisses.

Songs.

Goodnight sun,

see you  tomorrow.

US INTERSTATE 5

Some people find

Interstate Highway 5

Boring. Not me, I

like the contours

of the hills,

the smooth shapes

that so resemble

a sleeper who

lies dreaming

on her side.

Thousand-acre orchards

of peaches, pistachios,

raisin vineyards,

walnuts, and nectarines 

Tumbleweed and

prairie scrub where

the land looks

as endless as the sea.

Where the owls nest

underground and

kit foxes hunt

kangeroo rats on

moonlit nights.

No towns adjacent

to the twin ribbons

of pavement, just

metastatic clusters

of Chevron, Shell and Arco.

Each station with

a mini market stocked

with six dozen brands

of energy drinks,

sodas, flavored

sparking waters

packaged sandwiches,

microwave burritos

and sausage, egg and cheese

muffins or biscuits.

Roller hotdogs, trucker caps,

cheap cowboy hats.

smokeless tobacco,

vape cartridges and

the scent of stale coffee.

Endless chains of trucks.

Classic retail may be dying

but all that stuff still gets

sold online and Fedex, UPS,

and Amazon are busy

hauling it from port to town.

It all moves at eighty plus.

Roll at seventy and you

get rolled over by Hondas

Fords, or Chevys. Volvos.

Toyotas or Teslas.

The California Aqueduct

snakes back and forth

beside the freeway,

fed by water that flowed

in rivers before the

cities and the farms

got so thirsty. There

are largemouth bass,

carp and catfish in the

concrete channel.

I wonder if they get bored.