Beach Boardwalk July 4th

About one-thirty

the Sun broke through, though the fog

—often a spoiler of early summer—made only a short retreat,

a mile or so out.

I walk down the slope

from Santa Cruz West Coast Hotel (the old Dream Inn)

& most beautiful appear the tall palms that line the sidewalk

of Beach Street.

High flying, of course, the Stars & Stripes, high upon a pole

atop Cocoanut Grove.

And there are people,

of course. So many people, streams of people—

Where do they all come from? Oh, they come from everywhere.

We know Earth is bountiful.

Every year they come. Every day summertime they come.

Today just happens to be July 4th.

And they converge

upon this Santa Cruz image-making machine sending out

its visions of American amusement, its siren call sounding,

Come! Come & have fun! It’s the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk!

And it’s, like, the only boardwalk you’ll find along the whole long

West Coast—

And the beach here

is heavily peppered with people, sitting & lying on blankets,

standing & staring & just cruisin’ the crowd, having picnic lunches,

volley ball jumping where nets are set up, a few daring the cold

of Bay water, most happy for the Sun, warm, not quite hot,

though bathing suits & shorts, bare feet & chests, are plenty.

Plenty of bodies out on the beach

& a few elegant, white sailboats & sleek, white cabin cruisers

picturesque on the Bay, this side the fog;

& the Santa Cruz Municipal Wharf, to the right, is lined with cars

& continuous streams of on-foot visitors.

Everywhere, plenty of people, plenty of bodies,

plenty of Fourth of July fun.

This is the American holiday, after all.

There are American boys & American girls,

American teens & couples & families of all sizes,

American groups of all kinds;

& there’re singles boppin’ along, checkin’ things out;

you sense a gang presence too, but security & police are always visible—

American crowds—& plenty of foreigners, too—all converged

on the quintessential Cruz.

Oddly, perhaps, a man in East Indian dress—emerald green tunic

over white, head wrapped in a turban in white; long, two-pronged,

wavy beard; bare foot;

his ten-speed bike loaded down with packs,

an American flag hoisted from a rack on a makeshift pole,

reads to all who will listen

from his miniature Bible.

And a white-bearded man

with head band & shades has a knack with fingers

for turning pampas grass leaves into little rose flowers

he offers to people who gladly line up for them,

his little American flag

propped in a green painted can.

Another man nearby,

dressed in red & white, twists sausage long balloons

into different kinds of head gear,

a young girl sitting on a bicycle hangs out with him wearing one,

an ET Grey face bobbing above.

And another man

with guitar, pulled back ponytail, his American flag

propped up in a guitar case, sings,

I watch the ocean change color...

I am but a piece of driftwood...

And I walk on this day—

I walk on & immediately I enter the big Casino Fun Center,

an exploding arcade bonanza of games just inside the doors

of Cocoanut Grove,

& the blast of it slams me,

this suddenly darkened, cavernous, moody blue interior

the moment you first walk in,

or call it a madhouse of sight & sound—

It slams you—the rows of dim track lighting on grid work above,

strings of game lights flashing & lights pulsing;

a pervasive, low, background rumble, with rings, bells, blasts, whiz bangs,

& more ring rings & rat-tat-tats & whams & whistles & pinball boinks

& whacks & groans & thuds from video game battles & vehicles of one kind

or another crash & burn, & more ring rings & air hockey disks are loud

smacked around tables & balls are rolling & shots are fired,

you can hardly hear voices above it all.

And voices there are. Packed with people. Especially young people

playin’ ‘em all—

Dozens & dozens of games

sardine-packed by the aisle in this fun mad central:

Pinball Star Wars/Stargate/Star Trek/Comet/Whirlwind/Twister/

Hurricane/Cyclone/Superman/Radical/Street Fighter/Jurassic Park/

High Speed/Phantom of the Opera/Genie/even Dolly Parton—

And there’re video games of high-violence Primal Rage/Mortal Kombat/

Martial Champion/Virtua Fighter/Marvel Super Heroes/fighter jet

Raiden Fighters/Terminator/X-Men/vicious kung fu fighting Tekken/

& there’s football Blitz/NBA Jam/The Lost World/Asteroids/

& enter a stand-up booth for Discs Tron.

And a kid speeds too fast

in his attempt to outwit a snaky California highway,

trying to match California Speed,

all these distractions, obstacles in a blink,

& I get dizzy just watchin’;

same with Alpine Racer/Wave Runner/Top Skater/Surf Planet/

Daytona USA 1, 2, 3 & 4, & so many more—

All are pumped up on speed, reflex, action, sound, bursts of sound,

instant sound, impact sound, loud sound—

Or jump on a motorcycle, soar through canyons on a Prop Cycle,

or take a race car driver seat or a jet fighter pilot cockpit seat;

& a teen shoots a hand held gun & blows away opponents

down brick solid dungeon corridors & outside these Gothic castle

parked limos

in the game of Time Crisis;

& people wait outside a darkened room for Laser Tag—

A sign flashes, The ultimate in interactive.

And in the real world of real foes, real crises,

might we ask,

Who among us are the real heroes?

And there’s

an Old West-style Gold Rush Shooting Gallery,

& dress up for Old Time Portrait Studio, & have a fortune read

in cards by dame mannequins behind glass, & stuffed animals

are piled & packed & peek out from behind glass;

get morphed in a Foto Morphosis booth, or put on tomorrow’s

Virtual Reality helmets like some high-tech pilot as video monitors

follow the action.

And I move through it all,

moving on through this world, in my brief passage

through this world—

I exit to the Boardwalk into some light again, & start down

the long, partially enclosed of a walkway;

streaming the center ceiling a triple row of pulsing running lights

lead you on,

O I am caught in the drift of it all,

there’s so much more still hits you—

To the left, all the candy & gift & Sun & surf shops; to the right,

the arched vistas upon beach & Bay.

And next the Cannonball Arcade is Neptune’s Kingdom

I now escape into—

I pass a food joint & Fantasy Image (Your Face—Anyplace)

& then this Ask the Brain smarty face—

An eerily lifelike, bald-pate, monocle-eyed, electrostatic discharging,

smug-smiling mad doctor behind glass,

& I see I am suddenly inside Neptune’s Kingdom

of a giant arched ceiling room with a miniature golf pirate theme.

On the far high wall a sail ship replica marooned on rocks

protrudes out a big painting depicting some imagined ideal

of a tropical cove—

There’s a volcano spouting smoke & lighted sparks;

& then I see more games packed in right behind me—

A Smuggler’s Arcade there, with take the wheel & high speed

through San Francisco,

or get inside a Rad Mobile;

jump in a seat & take controls of Cyber Sled;

& there is more—

Dungeons & Dragons/Aero Fighters/Rampage/Terminator 2

Judgement Day/Steel Gunner/giant console, wide-screen X-Men

& big life screen Old West Mad Dog, & take a gun, step forward,

& start to shoot in Time Crisis II;

& inside the hologram Time Traveler a miniature, blue-clad woman

in these big, blue boots materializes out of a bubble,

Greetings, I am Kyla, Princess of the Galactic Federation.

I journey through time to find you.

We need your help... You are our last hope...

And in the real world of real time travel, real Galactic Federations,

might we ask,

Who among us holds the real key to futurity?

And upstairs

there’re more games, air hockey tables, pool tables,

a draft beer bar is there & historical photos line the wall,

& people are pouring over & milling about,

streaming the stairs up & down.

And I walk out

& walk on into bright sunlight again in the open air

& the crowds of Independence Day promenade in waves

that irresistibly sweep along,

descending steps to the beach, exiting the beach,

going to & fro among arcades & concession stands & rooms

of Pokereno/Boom Ball & Skee Ball & all the typical booths you find

of stuffed animal games;

there’re people wandering alone or as couples, people in groups, parents

with kids,

some sitting, eating at tables & benches, chatting with each other,

or waiting in lines for thrills & screams & heartbeat workouts,

all intent on having fun,

indulging all the while on their American candy apples/

popcorn/hotdogs & corndogs/pretzels/tacos/burgers & fries/

cotton candy/sno cones/ice cream/sundaes/milk shakes/

American soda pop & American beer.

And they ride

the amusement visions of America—

Pirate Ship/Speed Bumps bumper cars/Haunted Castle/

Giant Dipper screaming people historic rollercoaster/Wave Jammer/

stomach-turning Chaos & Typhoon/Bermuda Triangle/Rip Tide/

Rock-o-Plane/Venturer like Jonah swallowed in a high-tech whale;

& still, there’re more rides even, at the far end, a quarter mile down—

Video Storm & Ferris Wheel & the splashy wet log coaster

of Logger’s Revenge,

& a whole lower level you surprisingly discover there

packed still with more.

And a cable trolley Sky Glider

shuttles people back & forth overhead

—you can get how the bird’s eye sees it all—;

& the constant scream of voices letting loose utterly fills the air;

& wafting surf tunes of Beach Boys you hear

throughout the air

in this time warp capsule

of pop culture Americana.

Out on the beach a giant stage is set up

where Friday night guest bands from the past

will play

for Summertime Summer Nights.

And in a room all its own

—you can’t miss it—, you find the childhood charm

we have all certainly known

of Merry-Go-Round.

You can see how people love it, how they line up & jump on,

& round & round, up & down, how the mock horses prance;

& the tinkly, mesmeric, carousel music, it goes round & round;

& lights above radiating on spokes from the center are turning,

round & round;

& mirrors flash on the perimeter of the rotating ring,

there’re all these mirrors on the walls,

everything is bright & reflective & glittery—

And in the real world of real Visions, real action,

might we ask,

Who among us are the real prophets?

Who are the world’s real movers & shakers?

Here,

the American-born visions of amusement bring in the people—

And so many people, streams of people. Where do they all

come from?

Oh, they come from everywhere. We know Earth is bountiful.

And Earth will be bountiful, no matter what

the Ocean

might bring—

A mile out in the Bay,

a solid bank of spoiler fog,

looking in all the world like an impending wall of water.

Santa Cruz

July 1998