Rob Woodard

PORT OF LONG BEACH BLUES

“This day has been so awesome,”
the last afternoon sunshine reminds me,
just before it turns into sunset—

“Why do you want to ask more of it than the moment?
Why do you want to ruin it with art?”

And as I ride my bike down the beach path looking out into
the cooling yellow sky, the green-brown ocean, and the gray
outer workings of the Port of Long Beach
I agree that art would definitely be a bad thing now

But I also know that that’s exactly what I’m going to do, go home
and fuck things up like this

It’s just who I am still



ORANGE CRUSH

For Gary Snyder

It’s hard to be an orange tree in Southern California
these days—

the community of groves all but gone
and so many of the remaining individuals locked
behind backyard cinderblocks,
alone, cut off
from friends, community,
encouragement, love …

But there are whispers amongst the survivors,
wild dreams moving throughout all
the Diaspora—

Notes and thoughts passed thru windblown leaf
and along the voices and wing beats
of grateful birds and insects;
propositions of alliance
with lemon cousins, cumquats,
and even pomegranate and avocado
joining in:

visions of cracked pavement
and houses tumbled down
row after row of brethren
sunshine and frost
good years and bad
but most importantly
space and freedom
freedom and space …

Plans of a long future like the brief past
when they were all brought here
to create a scented sky,
dream silhouettes in the
the marine dawn and
desert dusk,
and the propaganda
of abundance and health
that nearly destroyed
them all