here in this land where we convene,
near the marine, oh how sweet is the scent of evergreens
in between this deep ravine.
Black as night,
the writer sits staring into coffee grounds that help her write those stories of fright,
in the blight of spring,
when most unexpectedly the stars gleaned an azurite,
but now she heads into the floodlights,
to a new road,
taking off in flight.
And now comes a time,
the girl sits back and rhymes,
at the end of the night
there’s the squeezed limes next to empty glasses,
and though it’s just March,
summertime is on her mind.
The people come and go,
flooding sidewalks like cargo,
they walk in front of her camera,
but they don’t know,
they make the perfect photo.
And on the radio are snippets of Jack Kerouac,
his deep voice resounds in the car front and back,
these girls screaming almost like they’re on prozac,
but no its just good ol’ jack and their eagerness to get out the car
and hike with their knapsacks down the ocean floor into more,
talking and talking of the world as if they were living breathing almanacs.
Yeah, early morning drives into the city of many street lights
for a good ol’ cup of joe in the pacific heights,
and ultimately skipping class instead.