Big Sur

(June 2021. Billy Chris Waldo and I send it up the Pacific Coast Highway in the bus. I sat on a cliff and wrote this poem in my notebook straight through in one go, no edits. That flow state is one of the best feelings in the world. The poem still holds up, and retains its singular sense of place. Billy took this picture; find the poet in the photo.)

Big Sur

I would like to sit in crashing silence
Criss cross staring at the waves
Of the wide world coming in.

I now gaze out at every blue I ever wanted,
And the foam of crashed waves among rocks
Is bright white like the pure light at the speed of the universe.

The seaweed loving bugs do not bother me.
The seagulls silhouetted and foggy
Are perched watching from the most prominent rock.
They watch the water much more than they watch us.

I have never been in an arena of light quite like this—
The mountains bouncing behind me, the open sea sky,
An obtuse cavern open, myself in the center seeing
All the light touches touching me.

The math of the waves happens with the crash of the waves,
And not a moment faster.
The oceanself— inside, incalculable omnidirectional war,
Polytheistic pressing for place (and never the same place)
Pushing up incomprehensible topography,
The surface of the whole, the swirling depths uplifted,
More than numbers we can’t compute,
Known simply and perfectly by pulse
Of ocean, of ourselves, of One God.