A Return to Cannery Row

Breakfast with four members of the Manson family
And they’re saying that Point Lomo, “A little private
Christian school,” is probably a lot like Harvard.

Sharpen your teeth ruddy high-grass stalkers
With night eyes all alighted and keen
For fresh pieces of you. They seemed to be able
To tell that I had smoked the night before,
Sniffing the air like religious zealots and going on about
Black gospel choirs—don’t be fooled—the mother
Dressed up like a distant outpost for 1960’s housewives
Vacuumed up in pearl and her hand reached for orange juice
Like a forgotten hand for a glass at a far. “Before I met
Your father,” she tells her two tabula absolutely empty daughters
And they grin about something else like constellations of teenage
Kabuki theater and they trade sidelong glances like masks.

The sun bursts through the haze and the trees,
Still gnarled and mocking, beckon blood soaked feet
To the beach, and I’m watching that trail out to sea
With my head in my hands as the terrible orchestra
Reaches its peak. Leave the door unlocked,
They’ll find a way inside either way. Four knives
Glint in the moonlight.