Puerto Vallarta
kissed by the sun
dressed in green and blue hills
filled with towering palm, agave, deep-rooted hube de oro
monstrous árboles, boughs,
dripping tendrils
searching for the wet earth
housing the myriad birds that sing on the breeze,
sparrow, parrot, macaw, frigate:
feasting on butterflies in bougainvillea
stretching & winding over stone stairwells
leading into hills
past white condominium towers & cupolas in blue
funiculars from Conchas Chinas to the animal world
hiding above, hiding jaguars, iguanas,
elusive spirits in the gumbo limbos
in the ceibas
in the banyans
the steep hollow sound of the mountain reaching for that maddening beauty-
the sea!
Pacifica!
Goddess sea
haunted realm of the lonely whale
separated at birth from us
at the beginning of time
please return to me, all of you
kindly, in my memories, in my dreams, in my waking moments,
while we humans search for meaning
in our silly worlds below the mountain
beside the sea
the realm of man and woman
its own beauty found in cobblestone lanes,
pastel homes
odiferous fires spitroasting puerco
singing with habañeros y tamarindos
on the swollen lips of passersby-
the curvy beauty, canela in floral linens
white teeth flashing at
vigorous youths, boys,
their nipples exposed in the tropical sun
new hairs hinting at maturity
exposing the dichotomy of the Huichol crone
wrinkled, blackened by the sun
resting her feet and her trinkets, plastic,
under branches of platano on the malecón
while turistas flood the corners of each scene
humming with money and possibility
neglecting
forgetting the worlds above & below
the worlds of beauty & sadness
San Francisco
returning to you, again and again
from jungles, from deserts
from the sea, from the sky
ever seducing me despite your cool demeanor
because of your open heart
your beautiful formal displays
of deco administration,
gabled and shingled pastel rows
undulating stairs,
meandering fog clinging to
stoic Monterey cypress
and ancient sand dunes
the green expanses of your parks
clumping together behind St. Anne-
pastel pink birthday cake, camel and wise men trimming
the facade in marzipan icing.
I long to return to you,
again, again, return to my rituals:
in line at Purple Kow
huddled for warmth after
a matinee of Miyazaki at the Balboa,
in line for blue bottle at the Laundromat
in my sunny corner of Noe Valley
before marching up Sanchez, ascending
for bay views, descending
to uncork Billecart-Salmon, again, again,
for queens, lovers, tourists, young mothers,
techies with tots, haves and have nots,
to feed green biscuits to
collies and Chihuahuas, bull terriers,
and mutts, frenchies named Maya
and after it all to find
solace and meditation
on lonely foggy walks-
down Pond street,
down the Stockton tunnel from one world
to the next
down Lover’s Lane,
down Precita Park
other times to find solace hand-in-hand
under the sun under the moon
with lovers or friends or parents, visiting,
playing tour guide for the enamored
and reminding me I’m still enamored as well
with that bright shining city
spread across the hills
dipping low into the waves
of gray- maritime layers
concealing then revealing
the many corners of the world
each world
floating by as if in a dream
a city dreaming of itself, dreaming of heaven
