Damon Hubbs

Dogtown

Nobody writes letters anymore.
Once before
I tried to write you a letter 
but only got as far 
as the waiting room in hell.
This morning, however
I watched a film by Luis Buñuel 
and for no particular reason 
it reminded me of you.
Maybe because of the foot washing, 
maybe because of the paranoia; 
either way I made eggs 
and wrote a poem 
that tried to capture something 
slightly bemused.
Why do I bother 
chopping composition into 
line lengths. I loved you 
and you were as bad as they come.  

Did you know 
that Caroline Herschel 
coined the word photography 
in 1839.
Nobody uses cameras anymore.  
And isn’t it better not to look too closely.  
I’m sorry, I know how much you love 
those paintings by Marsden Hartley. 
O Gloucester is bitter and monstrous in March.
Where is the kingfisher and his energies of intuition? 
Do you remember 
the guy from Big Sur,
the one who bought the Dogtown Bookstore
with his waspish wife 
who was a four in bed, at best —and her mood swings
egad! I heard he burned down Benny’s Boatyard. 
Ok, ok, she was a five 
or six, at 
least
but didn’t launch a thousand ships, agreed?