I was reminded of this poem during our recent trip to Pismo (I've altered it slightly, since it's been years since I wrote it, but the core remains the same):

never have been. . . hamstrung, redrum - these heartless ones descending time cease to sell the same as they go flying by.
To dream and die in cold, cold San Diego - to live, love and lie in the salty ocean air and the iambic meter of wind crash, wave dash and dive to here or there. Forgetful forget-me-nots grow in the late sandy tidal time - crossroads, empty words and I'm dying and meeting and dreaming where the rhythm drives.
Red before the season, caught before my days and descending slow, rending places unknown and unsung and. . . might not ever be.