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      May 19, 2013Renting Tom Mix’s House on CatalinaMark Smith

      The technicolor organ roars “Avalon”
      and shakes the movie planetarium,
      stars blink inside the dome, the travelogue
      lights up the panoramic screen—
      a sea nymph, with her breast strokes,
      parts the portieres of floating kelp,
      then dives, flutter-kicking
      to a sandy bottom decorated
      with the spills of island pottery—
      urns, teapots, flagons—as bright as neon
      in pacific waters more transparent
      than the polished windows of boutiques.
      Where cinematic cowboys and comedians,
      in white flannels and sailing caps,
      chase their second wives and mistresses
      around the staterooms of their rented yachts,
      the young college women of California
      paddle by athletically in their canoes,
      Olympic medals, won in swimming pools,
      tucked modestly between their breasts;
      at the beaches, where the folding chairs
      are done in canvas awning stripes,
      starlets in bathing caps, treading water,
      picnic from floating table tops
      set up with brut champagne in flutes,
      and wave coquettishly at any seaplane landing;
      at harbor side, parrots fix their eyes
      upon the marlins in the fountains’ tiles,
      tuna leap in trophies, palm trees
      flaunt their barren minarets
      above the flowers of Grand Canary,
      and the little shelving tile-town oasis,
      with art deco touches in its shops,
      and Tuscan architecture in its houses,
      squeezes up the canyon to the mausoleum
      of the God of spearmint gum.
      From the town, a climbing spiral
      of roadside eucalyptus wanders,
      like pilgrims with umbrellas,
      into the mists or empty blue of desert sky;
      on the rugged B-western slopes
      where fennel and tossed geraniums
      grow wild, a long-haired boy and girl
      helloing, and with arms thrown wide,
      run naked through the buffalo,
      trailing the vines that broke
      like victory tapes, against their strides.
      O topsy-turvy world—the mountains
      lift their shades upon the sun,
      the silhouettes of lovers, spinning
      from the ballroom, embrace on balconies
      that sail above the moonlit boats
      like gondolas beneath balloons;
      in rippling bars and measures,
      the light bulbs of the big band’s notes
      waft far from the Casino, and explode
      like bombshells over Hollywood.
      In the wild interior, deer, in miniature,
      leap about the steep ravines;
      in far blue coves, pirate ships lie anchored,
      swashbucklers topside in their hammocks,
      the whole scene waiting to be filmed.

      from #21 - Summer 2004