Jane Sprague
 

The Port of Los Angeles
 
 
 
 

Goods on a truck mid-country awaited transport to their new destination abode domicile their new place of domestic malcontent the goods waited in their precious and stained ways their ways of chipped edges past fights held litanies sounds of sex held sounds cries to sleep after raging held memories of the things they’d contained things smoked and inhaled held memories of naming and also the names spoken secrets only the objects heard because they held these things and waited small ships in tight bays because their way of portage was defined as a way of cigarettes smoking to cinder to ash over the wheel a way of ash between the driver’s legs the crease in the jeans the smell of the companion too close in the adjacent seat * the goods awaited swift transport through near states witnessed many things cities smog animals passing through slaughter passing through ways of metal cages metal cars metal blades passing into cool foam snapped plastic passing into cold reefer cars the goods saw this and waited patiently a word beyond patience a word beyond the spark of perfectly timed fireworks in the Arch strapped country under the light of a just full moon the things saw this and held the memory of what they were into what destination hence and with whom what nation to pass through and study what new port to arrive what vessel what container what soft hand to greet them same hand same sound same nation city street same point of departure as point of arrival  cranes of the port longshoremen heroin creeping in jackets hundreds of packets of plastic things shaped for fixing mending catching all manner of debris because the things knew this and slept because the things knew of a use beyond the sound of their names they waited not idle not indifferent parsed into sectors boxes of labeled and specific function rooms of disbursement they waited and waited to arrive.   * * we have arrived the big empty we follow yachts the path of canals we watch fires burn Courtney Love tied down and thrashing Michael Jackson’s felt codpiece this is the nightly news  this is the promised land * when we arrive Kobe stays Shaquille sells himself away the Lakers still godly in San Onofre great whites lured by last year’s buried whale bump surfers we purchase as little as possible watch the hammer derricks drill hoping for oil hoping and hoping for oil we find comfort in thrift reheat yesterday’s coffee buy generic brands only * California insinuates itself through our veins through our beds   through our children through the constant hump and suck of the waves  as the derricks continue to drill   we find ourselves called to Ikea again and again  strange comfort in Scandinavian curves our child falls in love with Ikea wants to move in * our child finds comfort in small beds small nesting places we wonder bunks of the port small spaces for ships small pockets for junk   * we arrive in familiar utterly strange inhale smoke float into silence inhale smoke consider lines on the face of our friends we consider love and fucking we pine. * we follow helicopter beams to the beach we watch the bust from afar watch sirens flare flickerblue watch people handcuffed wade through water to beach to car to confinement we watch the one who gets away people locked in containers people locked in and let out the junk goods for Ikea the women men the junk animals in pockets and containers workers ways of work ways of sleep placeless * our narrow beds full of sweat the dream our lover is dreaming   in the far adjacent city nation state we pine for sleep and our lovers we think these things alone and concurrently as the derricks continue to drill their hopeful tap tapping waiting for oil waiting for our arrival our bunk our bed our slumber to cease or begin * still the derricks are moving drills in the night moving through our arrival ushering us past back to the place of our goods carried and sold our goods handled and packed our goods broken in anger and drunkenness our goods secret notes sealed tightly with gum * still we are riddled with this sense of waiting to arrive to be filled to get there somehow to come to get off to own or release to hit the silky vein the promise as if the liquid of that would be enough * as if the junk could smoke us far enough into stillness far enough into some cool made nest as if that promise of safety could wrap us as our legs wrap us in the night one to the each to the other to the imagined to the next to the palm between the thighs as if the absence of that thing is place enough and there enough and good in shipping lanes and sheets our shared oily skin shared oily sheets shared lanes of oil lanes of derricks drilling unceasingly a rhythm for sleep a new dream super containers extreme engineering extreme global village * as much as we were trying to live simply as much as we tried to discard our possessions we became more and more part of the problem   we moved further and further from our small eden our perfect worm compost our imperfect idyll   with its perfect unemployment its perfect racism its perfect exclusion of that perfectly pitched and heldback class as we watched our child step deeper and deeper into the minds of his friends our nation’s rural poor   as we watched this and despaired as we watched this and despaired for the rent as we got a better job and gave everything away   the myth of California was the same and John Steinbeck was right but the world was bigger now we did not want to be here still the wind was warm the food was good at Ikea the goods were durable cheap and well fashioned * we found ourselves perfectly pitched at the edge of globalism the lip it seemed like a word too big and better suited for the news or at least CNN we were transfixed by the ships rolling in we worried we were vexed nettled beset were we merely imitating at best were we making cheap concessions for our impending descent into the mass bourgeoisie consumers being consumed was there any way to escape it was asking this question too much in light of the ships * when you get lost, just orient yourself by the refinery when you get turned around, just look for the port you can see the cranes from just about anywhere, around here

  (c)Jane Sprague 2004