Peoria, Tazewell, And Woodford: Here, There & Everywhere

Brian Wilson by Mike Foster



The dry wave, the surf of dust

When oceans boil to alkali

And fish crawl, begging, down our streets.

Out on the beach, young men

Narrow their eyes, bite their hair,

Wait for the sound of water

One wave only, one tide.


Where did your long hair go?

Who hollowed out your eyes?

What slithered into your room

And left you too afraid to leave?


Fat fear layered like geology, immured

Like a sailfish with wings

Enfossiled in ancient rock in Utah

Brian, Brian, Brian,

The song of the empty sea


Surf’s up, a wave of

High school buildings collapsing folding over themselves.

Breakers of crushed chrome,

Sting Rays and Thunderbirds,

Rush to the edge of California

And dive off into the trench.


On the floor of the lonely room,

On the flood of the room of the world.

The amputated hand of a cheerleader,

Sticky with blood and spilled Coke.

A Stratocaster grows fins

And slips beneath the waves,

Clutching the cold hand.

Wipe out.


The dry ocean baked flat, no sound, no splash

The dry brain hides behind

The bitter, baffled eyes.

The grim gaze squints

Beyond the coast, into

The red burn sunset.

But no water, none,

Not even their own.


O how will you mend me?

Cry the sad bells of Wendy

How long will I wonder?

Sing the glad bells of Rhonda

We have nothing, only time,

Cry the bells of Caroline

And once it was all mine,

Say the mad bells of Brian.


3 December, 1977lsptpufgzgmochfgomdq


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This entry was posted on February 2, 2016 by in Mike Foster, Poetry, Uncategorized.
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