Shampooey

Shampooey

Where California ends
and Washington begins,
cloudy Shampooey storms
like a smoking cigar
up an Oz land sea coast,
casting visionary eyes
fondling voluptuous intrigues
of erupting space.
A tall tree adventurer and rogue,
face cut by opalescent rivers
where whiskey times roll
through salty spin drift dunes
groining its sandy weight
forward into an empire of green jade firs
luminously holy in the light
of haunted moss and fern.
Shampooey. Flying on its own wings,
a land of drunken trappers, missionaries,
Indians, fisherman and gun toting whores.
Shampooey, at war with war,
singing the Wayne Morse sutra.
Land of castor canadensis momogamous,
flat tailed and teething on beach,
birch and alder,
rooting up willows, buds and roots
in yellow throated meadowlark valleys
of sweet flower nectars
attracting scat of bear, otter, coyotes.
Shampooey.
Independent, skeptical, wide eyed
as a sunstone.
Oz West of coastlines
where Tom McCall stares
down from the stars
and meets your eyes with his wink.


Scott Malby

Posted over on A Little Poetry