Nolan Chessman

I came to your town
and saw boulders
spilling off
the mtn.
bay of smokes
shied in loose
dress of sea
fog. Down
from the mtn.
your brother’s coffin
in dirty shroud
of sea fog,
in rills
of debris
your brother’s
coffin came
to be buried
in some ravaged
swimming pool.
of debris
sliding off the mtn.
In some ragged
swimming pool,
your brother
The Actor,
the clinking boulders
he heard, not
castanets strung
around his slight
neck, came
sliding off the mtn.
You said
he liked living
in the valley, your brother
The Actor
with twin cats
scarfed in varying
He liked living there,
his lifestyle
oversteepened in rock,
his cats scarfed
in colors,
gave them each
a sense
of self, he said,
from the storm,
had mined
a thunder
A gentle
sense of self, he said,
in the otherwise
faint dress
of sea fog.
from the storm
a thunder trail.
I came
to your town
and saw boulders,
a bay of smokes.






California is a fragile little paradise. Read John McPhee's essay, "Los Angeles Against the Mountains," to find out how Hummer-sized boulders have rumbled their way into downtown L.A.