where pine trees line sea cliffs and coves   and dark gulleys and gulls cry shrill-voiced and sharp-billed   float in mid-air and the wind comes up from watsonville east      from lettuce fields and artichoke fields   strawberry fields, onion fields, find sanctity in fields   find sanctity in sur, the big sur, big crag cliffs, surf spray   and soil of indian california      the clamshell cracked tooth and acorn shoe california   we have cars and we have maps to san fran   crescent city, oakland and the gilman, monterey   san simeon, solinas      sleep under stars and steal cigarettes   campfires we are poor, beachfires we see heaven in moonlit waves   inspect a fire glow   our faces are like aztec gods      we visit oakland warehouses where j.s. sits candlelit   and lives forever in bonds and healthy robust   laughing princelike telling stories of chicago squats   where you see your breath on hard mornings      we stay in l.a. for a month   and walk beach avenues and feel dead   we sleep on the sand in santa monica   woken in chill dawn by lifeguards in brown shorts and red jackets      we get drunk and throw rocks and parked cars in san diego and wake up feeling guilty   but in marin there is fog and rotting cottages and thistle weed mornings   mason jars, lining windowsills      and in bakersfield small town high school girls suck off their dealers in the backs of old buicks   spit out the window then tie off and belts fulfilling and joyous into the upholstery   while the radio plays soft      and it is dark   streets are empty and wet   and we race below light at overpass   our cars like rhinos and sharks   submarines      and onward we move into where?   a job where we feel bare and picked apart and misunderstood   or those schools where teachers talk with cadaver voice   no, no, no      no we want and pray and sweat for nothing more than to stand our one pulse race to the next   to run all our days and find finally in the promised land   (to run all our days and find finally in the promised land)