A flood of cities overwhelms
our whelping scarves. O ingenue of distance,
we shall infuse Pasadena
with vernacular after vernacular. Airports meant
for athletes to dive off of are human ports
stunned in avowal.
Trucked along cold coast upon golden coast,
we are the grand luggage of strawberries
juggled through meridians, makings
beyond the Pacific undertow.
The arc of the mortal flashes its kaleidoscope:
our twists of light do not succumb
to interstates, to smog-stunned horoscopes.
We encounter moon, then moon, then moon
after next. We travel across
a terrain of earthquakes, trace fault lines
down bloodlines, through
ruptures in the glass-riven asphalt.
Our passage distends dawn, a skein of jazz
ravels into chill. Gravestones
endure in sawdust, however swiftly skyscrapers
replace the linings
of lanterns by the sea. Our neurons
muster marvels past every peach-heaviness.
Pasadena is an Indiana of the self.
A hard core rap ballad
marks our ten-hour landing, dishevels
the purest dialect. A guava cake, pensively oval,
greets us in cursive icing.