Where the sky meets the sea

Just like the old ones.
I'm back to this slate
Numb from the free novocaine
Thanks, doc.
The mountains are blissful
It's like they're smoking
as the mist and clouds and fog
rise from nature's stacks.
That fog. It was the only reprieve in
South Carolina. There is much of it in
California -- the newest play life has taken.
But that fog still exists.
Leaving everything glistening.
Somehow fog and cool nights
and a mist of rain
brings me back to 2008 or '09.
I don't know why.
But there was magic then.
Have I lost the magic?
Am I numb to it now?
I refuse to believe it was temporary.
And I know it wasn't all for naught.
I know the magic, the inspiration is still
circulating through my veins. Just like
the first prose or set of musings.
Maybe all it takes it a little fog to set the mood.
It's sad how clear things are when there's fog.
And it smells so good; so fresh and vibrant.
The vapor of life. The ether of inspiration.
My home is a million miles away.
A church.
A newspaper.
A smoky bar.
A marquee.
The marquee. Dazzling.
The days grow shorter.
My return? Painfully far from imminent.
But breathlessly eminent.

It's Monterey. It's famous.
And as I look at it from this hill
I don't see Monterey.
The view of the ocean and the beach
strikes a heavy chord
and a blessed memory
stored away.
A platoon of sailors running around.
An image of an island.
Reminding me of that painted backdrop.
That image.
"Where the sky meets the sea.
"Here am I, your special island."