awake in soft light of pacific grovennwhere pine trees line sea cliffs and covesnnand dark gulleys and gulls cry shrill-voiced and sharp-billednnfloat in mid-air and the wind comes up from watsonville eastnnnnfrom lettuce fields and artichoke fieldsnnstrawberry fields, onion fields, find sanctity in fieldsnnfind sanctity in sur, the big sur, big crag cliffs, surf spraynnand the soil of indian californiannnnthe clamshell cracked tooth and acorn shoe californiannwe have cars and we have maps to san frannncrescent city, oakland and the gilman, montereynnsan simeon, salinasnnnnsleep under stars and steal cigarettesnncampfires we are poor, beachfires we see heaven in moonlit wavesnninspect a fire glownnour faces are like aztec godsnnnnwe visit oakland warehouses where j.s. sits candlelitnnand lives forever in bonds and healthy robustnnlaughing princelike telling stories of chicago squatsnnwhere you see your breath on hard morningsnnnnwe stay in l.a. for a monthnnand walk beach avenues and feel deadnnwe sleep on the sand in santa monicannwoken in chill dawn by lifeguards in brown shorts and red jacketsnnnnwe get drunk and throw rocks and parked cars in san diego and wake up feeling guiltynnbut in marin there is fog and rotting cottages and thistle weed morningsnnmason jars, lining windowsillsnnnnand in bakersfield small town high school girls suck off their dealers in the backs of old buicksnnspit out the window then tie off and belts fulfilling and joyous into the upholsterynnwhile the radio plays softnnnnand it is darknnstreets are empty and wetnnand we race below light at overpassnnour cars like rhinos and sharksnnsubmarinesnnnnand onward we move into where?nna job where we feel bare and picked apart and misunderstoodnnor those schools where teachers talk with cadaver voicennno, no, nonnnnno we want and pray and sweat for nothing more than to stand our one pulse race to the nextnnto run all our days and find finally in the promised landnn(to run all our days and find finally in the promised land)