San Bernardino Streets
Baseline
I come from the west.
You have to start somewhere.
I can see straight
down this road
for miles, but not today.
The arroyo is big, empty.
A woman picks.
Walls of comfort have gaps.
Across the tracks, the Meridian.
Arroyo Valley hawks circle
the stadium.
Tacos Mexican (what other kind?),
Rico Taco, Taco Grinch, Taco Central, Tacos L, Taco Bender.
Across the great river
of north and southbound lanes,
the smog corner, the fun corner.
Quick pawn. Fame liquor.
Dollar king, dollar tree, dollar general,
all Smart and Final.
Crossing Waterman. I don’t know, Jack-
Is there a way out-of-the-Box?
The road is rising.
Milk dairy. Crazy Frank’s.
Auto spa, center, zone.
Universal Tires and Unified Baptists—
let them introduce you to the way.
Gina’s thrift, Charlie’s cars, Dale’s TV, Sam’s something.
Pain’s corner. Wayne’s RV storage. The House of Plywood.
Pepper tree restaurant.
Sam’s bargains. Gina’s thrift store again.
Maybe it moved already.
Sam and Gina seem to get around. (Or was it Gino?)
Welcome to High-land.
Sterling Street—still waiting for gold.
D&D furniture. The next sign explains.
Debt and Depression.
Three towers point the way—
open spaces, climbing.
Mobile homes—still.
Eternal fire is burning.
The police stand watching.
The churches sit on Church Avenue:
First United Methodist (must have beat the Baptists).
Saint Adelaide’s. A graceful spire.
A proud tower. A gilded arch
against the mountain peak—
San Bernardino looms large.
Straight ahead. Above the orange blossoms.
A marker laid down.
A city laid out.
A street laid straight. Again?
You have to start somewhere.
E Street
The SBX (its name
almost exciting
for a bus) says
“out of service”—
seeming sadly wise
despite its shiny
red paint and CNG
and dedicated lanes
and high capacity
(for emptiness) in this
broad valley of open
urban spaces.
The sign
red and square
arched and gold
says 15¢ hamburgers
and a many-zeroed number sold,
but none for sale
here and now—
for what prophet
remembers his home
when profit calls?
But burgers endure
at burger-market and -mania
the little Gus
the In-’N-Out-backed
Harley man, he too riding
shiny red, without
the empty seats.
Other tarnished temples
remain and retain
or try to recall
an uncertain sanctity
of short school days
sleek, long cars
fresh, sweet citrus
and sixty-six—
remembered now by
the family service center
the Asian seafood market
NAPA’s omnipresent parts
trucks and taquerias
the Indian-band ballpark
Christ, the scientist
and other vacancies,
a shrined (or coffined) carousel.
Above it all
in sparkling steel and glass
a block or two off Easy Street—
the Center of Justice.
Waterman
I travel south, the way of waters
fleeing down from the mountains,
the old Arrowhead pointing the way,
where water brought healing and hype,
where drought is bottled
and shipped for sale;
to the center of town,
the hallowed and the hollow,
with its Wienerschnitzels and wigs,
that center of dismantling
where it’s legal to pick-a-part,
with bail bonds and bótanicas
for those who suffer.
The left promises to deliver
as trucks back up to
endless bays without water,
which is pumped from the ground
toward the sea it will not reach,
ions exchanged for its TCE.
Roofing tiles sit stacked, silent.
Golf greens fly flags and flowers
in mourning.
Drab green fencing
seeks to hide the horror
so fresh, foreign, familiar.
The road goes on
watered by tears,
and ends in a Little Hill
in the place of remembering.
Michael Orlich began writing poetry in 2011. Since then, he has hosted a small monthly poetry group in his home in Reche Canyon, in Colton. He has lived in the IE since 2008 and works at Loma Linda University as a preventive medicine physician and researcher in nutritional epidemiology.
Inlandia: A Literary Journey 