03/14 Union Cattle Co in Hermosa Beach. Happy Birthday, Martin.
03/22 Riley’s Birthday party. Happy Birthday, Riley (03/2x), Jennifer (03/22), Dad (03/18). Then on to David / Janet’s. Close as kin.
03/28 Movie night (Walk Hard) and hangover Fridays.
03/29 Belated celebration @ Red C / Tavern w/ SDFunBoat Crew.
04/01 Dinner and beers @ Gastropub and Big Sonic Chill @ Air Conditioned.
In time, soon or not so soon. We drove over a malleable distance that yield and grew when laid across the anvils of each passenger’s mind, and every city that we passed, the hammer struck and formed the minutes, the hours, the streets parading with cars. Light, lamp. As that of Rome burning by sunset, not with fire but with envious green and reds. How simple it is to love the world now, when set apart and only the narrow scope of vision defining what is forward, where we came, our present sense of being. I must have spelled myself wrong all those times and so could not find truth in dictionaries. Where, why. So it is that my name never held meaning, it never indicated what was inherent, it was a sieve that deceived. There, in the confines of a metal box, I slipped into the dusky song and then became aware.
We want so much. Each one of us and our heads pounding with a thundering song of blood and headaches, pulse of the vibrating car that held our wrists in check to the agony of the road. Ahead, the city screamed into existence. Ahead, we were becoming gregarious drunks, not yet but just up ahead where the flames had once raced upon marble and turned it black, where soot had exhausted forests into frozen fixtures, imposing steel and ruined concrete. It is here that I want to tell someone that I am forgetting how to speak, that beneath my face and arms lay prairies of green skin. And here that I want to apologize for strangeness, but without my voice I could not begin. Beside a ditch, I become alien, even to myself, though the mothership had gone on without me. Holding my drink, I slipped off the dusty brink and then became unaware.
[Original Post Date: 03/14/2008]
Chest hurts, the way some clouds hurt to move.
Mother thinks I’m smoking crack, I deny. But there’s more to lose than weight or sleep: it’s the wild mushrooms that bloom and spread, mycelia threads on fallen timber and rotted bog, spotted heart and spitted lung.
Something less sinister. The culmination of days in the air.