Swimming on Broken Ground now in print

Now you can read this in a handier format, ink on paper.


http://www.amazon.com/Swimming-Broken-Ground-Mark-Chambers/dp/1505792037/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1421951328&sr=8-1&keywords=Swimming+on+Broken+Ground

forget about shoes

the dilemma that soul

is bounded in flesh.

-for the moment,

someday it may reside

in refrigerators and corvettes.

forget about shoes,

i need some wings on my feet,

to go out past the stars and the reefs

for sky rides on sea horses.

to listen to flowers sing about yellow

gone like summer in january,

and the crow that i taught

how to laugh like me.

thrift shop

the carousel horse

in the thrift store

dreams of galloping

through the moonlit dust

of a cow town 

after the cashier

locks the doors

for the night.

and the porcelain

dragons and elves,

elbow to elbow

with santas and bambis

and fat infant angels

watch from the shelves.

and the jim beam

commemorative elvis

whiskey decanter 

dances sans sullivan's

censor, shakes his pelvis,

belts out hound dog

to the dogs playing poker

in the black velvet world

and the boston bull terrier

hits an inside straight

causing the collie

to choke on his cigar.

big mouth billy bass

jumps down off the wall

swims under the falls

of the thomas kincaid idyll

finally reaching his

river of dreams.

and the bronze bowler

rolls a strike,

earns a salute from

a fine china mao

who stands resolute

over the tiger-striped couch

crouched in the corner

ready to spring

on the zebra-striped rug.

the richard m. nixon towel

with the five o'clock terry cloth jowls,

scowls at the clown-headed mug,

who provokes, i'm sorry dick,

i'm just plain bozo, not rebozo.

if you're looking for nattering

na-bobbleheads of negativity,

talk to spiro or g. gordon liddy,

nobody here but us porcelain chickens

detour

steeples and pyramids sit

on a three-mile brown horizon

pancake flat as a lake of shit.

a fat snake snuck a peak

from the dead oats overgrowing

the polished black heart of a tombstone

where I saw my reflection

looking back from the other side.

i heard the shriek of unseen kids.

they like to play on the tracks

flattening pennies and pretending

to be wallenda on a rope over

roaring niagara, so I crawled back

to my cardboard refrigerator box

hidden under the wild fig tree

claiming the ditch. because

we spent our days rehearsing apocalypse

and our nights chasing the mundane

in a cloud of smoke and spinning vinyl.

the needle tracking the grooves or our arms

waiting for it all to be over to go home

to peoria elms or los angeles boulevards,

galveston sands. a detour. intermission.

limbo. a reception room couch

without a book or a pen,

while our souls bled away.

free soup

The sign promised

lunchtime free soup

at the drive-in.

Karen and Richie

never showed up

later than twelve fifteen

lest they miss

the best bits and pieces

and have to settle

for pale salty broth.

Been kind of tough

since they followed

the sun out from

Des Moines, paying

for gas mostly in coin.

the first week they

were there, they got

a four day gig

delivering phone books.

when the motor

in the mini truck died,

they were stuck and

decided to thumb a ride

up the coast –Richie

had heard about a place

where the people

were supposed to be cool,

some old timber land

gone to brush, the new folks

were growing their own stuff,

kale and corn, runner beans,

pumpkins and such. a few

chickens and ducks.

they'd have to build

their own shelter,

there was plenty of scrap

left by the defunct

logging company.

meanwhile they could

rig up a tent, borrow

some tools, Richie had

worked construction

a few years before,

Karen could help in the garden

in exchange for a share

of the harvest. it sounded

real appealing, so they

left town early one morning

picturing themselves gleaning

a sweet life on the fat

of the land. took most

of the day, but by

late afternoon, they

walked down the rutted

driveway to a ramshackle

house built up against

the fifteen foot stump

of a tree. the hollow inside

had been lined with stones

to fashion a fireplace

and a chimney. ivy and wild

grape grew up the sides.

it had an air of the magical.

They knocked on the door

and a big aproned woman

opened it wide, invited them

to step inside, offered

a cup of nettle

and blackberry tea.

welcome to blackberry

ranch, she said. what

brings you here?

we heard this was

a cool place, and

we want to live here.

i see. what have you

brought to contribute?

i'm afraid we don't

have enough food

to just take you in,

do you have any money?

they dug through their

pockets and counted out

twenty four dollars

and thirty two cents.

that'll help said the woman

kindly. would you like

some more tea?

yes please, it's really good,

thank you. It's been a long

day, I'm suddenly feeling

very sleepy, Karen said.

Richie was yawning too.

soon they were dreaming

of sunny meadows and

children dancing around

maypoles, with garlands

of daisies woven into

their hair.

at the end of the rainbow

he sat for hours

on a hard plastic seat

of the type that is bolted

in fours to hard plastic tables,

reading giveaway real estate flyers,

and job listings in the local

freebie weekly.

every hour or so a refill of coffee

and another small order of fries.

ate them one at a time

as they grew limp and cold

and the salt sting on his lips

reminded him of windy

days at the tip of the cape.

the sun-darkened escapees

gathered round a dead shark

on the steep beach

batting flies out of their

sun-bleached wind-tangled hair.

where he met jimbo and rainbow

in their lucy and desi vintage

tear drop travel trailer

lugged to that southernmost point,

living on beans and head-splitting weed.

rainbow got tired of the perpetual sand,

her old man jimbo didn't mind,

long as the beans and marijuana held out,

and fucking bored weekender teens

who found his tousled orange county

beach bum good looks alluring enough

with a sufficient supply of tequilla

and moonlit bullshit.

so when rainbow asked for a lift,

ready to leave jimbo

and his daily beans in the trailer behind,

he'd said fine, and they made

the thousand mile drive

back up the spine of the peninsula

in his swoopy-roofed '68 boat of a pontiac.

she had no bread to contribute for gas,

but kept him entertained

for the three days to the border.

he dropped her off at a crash pad

in corona del mar where she hoped

to return to a gig selling salt water taffy

and weaving macrame plant hangers

to hawk to tourists in the evenings.

he tried to persuade her

to come with him up to willits

where he knew some growers

but she said it was too far from the beach,

the socal coast was more of her ideal clime.

his friends had been busted

by the paramilitary raids

while he was gone, so now

he sat in this burger joint in ukiah,

trying to decide whether to go back to baja,

or the crashpad in corona del mar

where rainbow had touched down.

fire and ice cream cones

the kids ate chocolate-dipped

ice cream cones

while they watched the inferno

burn the house up the hill

behind Safeway, the dry cleaners,

and the second hand book store.

they clambered on 

decorative boulders

in the parking lot planters

seeking a more advantageous

point of view of the flames

licking the eucalyptical grove.

the smoke smelled like

Kool menthol perfumed jazz.

all that remained the next day

were foundations,

a stairway that led

in the direction of heaven,

four shovels

with the handles burned off 

laying side by side in the driveway,

sauce pans still sat on stove

a charred teddy bear

floated face down

in the swimming pool,

a routine californian

apocalyptical scene.

in the shade

she's had the house

since right after the war.

Jake bought it on a VA loan.

his fatal stroke ten years ago

while waiting for the gate to rise

at the parking lot downtown

down the street from the bar

where he had lunched on

a club sandwich and two martinis

every day since he made partner

all those watermelon and mosquito

summer evenings ago.

now she lies on a daybed

in the backyard shade of the house

which needs to have

the pale robin's egg blue
refreshed to sea foam and the blisters

scraped off the south facing walls.

the morning club

the old men in fedoras

sat on the benches

by the trout pond

behind the state capitol

in the morning

before it got too hot

remembering anzio

and palermo

and the good times

to be had in naples

and rome if you

had hersheys

or nylons or camels.

then they came home

and bought bungalows

and chevys.

when the cool

of the morning wore off,

they retired to denny's for coffee

and grand slam specials.

afternoons they could spend

at the crest theater

for air con matinees,

doze through an old western

or something with

a hollywood blond.

the chevys and bungalows

were long gone.

so were the blonds.

but they still wore fedoras.