When the Clouds Spin Past My Car Window

My mind is the aftertaste of a lightning storm
It’s the licking of wet pennies
The static electricity
clinging to a playground slide

I wish I could take long walks
In the Malibu hills
Run my fingertips
Across the petals of golden poppies
Ride their infinite color stream
As endless as the road’s double line

Where can I find the king tarantula?
It’s hot in August
In the Griffith Park hills
Where does he hold court?
In the dusty forests
Of Malibu
Or the rolling plains
Of Santa Monica?

Does he feel trapped
In his delved palace?
Do the excavated walls close in on him after 3 o’clock
On a Sunday afternoon?
Do the arenaceous floors pull him to his knees
As he stares at the chapped grains
And feels his heart break
As the days go by
And he never amounts to more than what he is?

My soul feels dusty
It is the hills
And the palace of the tarantula king
I want it out
The dust

I am not free
I am not safe