You walk a broad circle through these heat waves
and fill your horn with tickets and cigars.
Our boy is a port cop, real intellectual type.
Writing a script about him, the bell rings.
Frauds come and go, speaking of San Bernardino.
Under a graphite awning the palm trees bristle.
This coastline has been displaced
for as long as I can remember.
I collect my jerseys and donate them
to the seagulls of Burbank.
Malibu is in the other direction.
He owns a good number of cars
and a small Coke factory.
He works for the rodeos,
and uses a harmonica for a mailbox.
In reality he runs a blue jeans company
based out of San Jose.