How I burned down half of the Pacific Coast Highway. (rough draft)

In Big Sur there was still hope. I was driving down Route 1 from San Francisco, and I had a flight out of LAX in five hours. A friend had told me I would have no problem making it to L.A. in time. In fact, I would fly down the coast. It was late September and it hadn’t rained since June. Wild fires frequent this year. After driving for a few hours I kind of zoned out. I thought about how this was the end of our country, how there was no more America. I daydreamed about what would happen if the fires made it here. Would the sea rise up and swallow the flames? Would the sea emerge a great hero? Or would it sit back apathetically licking the sand? What does the sea care about America? I thought. Although very scenic, route 1 was a very slow lazy Sunday-driving winding highway. There was no way one could fly on this highway. By the time I got to Monterey I knew I was not going to make my flight. I accepted it. I was hungry so I stopped off to eat. Waiting in my booth, I saw her walk in. The sun still hung on her somehow, even after she was seated. She glowed a bit in her dim booth. Her light seemed to dissipate, descending on near by tables and carried on, warming the room slightly. I was not the only one to notice her and how she appeared to carry the sun. A baby starred shamelessly over his mother’s shoulders. His eyes were locked as baby’s eyes sometimes do, but his gaze gave an impression that he was almost ashamed to be his mother’s child and not hers, the woman who carried the sun. I ate, stealing glances at the woman, and the shameless baby who continually brushed his mother’s hair out of his view. The woman finished her meal before I did and walked out the door. I looked at her in the parking lot through the window for what I thought then was the last time. The woman who carried the sun slowly strolled to her car when a great eagle swooped down and plucked her up by her shoulders. I looked back to the baby to see if he had seen it as well. He did. What are you waiting for? We have to go after her! The baby jetted his hands towards me. I swooped him up ran out to my car. I buckled the baby and myself in and took off after the woman who carried the sun and the eagle who now carried her. The eagle swerved deeply back and forth over the shore and the sea but for the most part we stayed right with them on route 1. The baby and I followed them for hours. The baby’s stare never varied. I could only swipe quick peeks, ducking down to see out the passenger side window. The radio didn’t work in the car so I tried to make small talk. I didn’t know what the baby was interested in besides our woman. We passed a sign that read, MALIBU 200 MILES. Do you know anyone in Malibu? I’m a baby. Who would I know in Malibu? He returned the question. Just Barbie…Malibu Barbie. The baby scoffed, keeping his stare. The next time I looked I noticed our woman wasn’t struggling with the eagle at all she had her arms outstretched like an airplane. Has she been like that the whole time? The baby nodded solemnly. NO! NO! NO! The baby clawed at the window. He shook his head wildly for a moment then settled his chin on his chest and began to cry, defeated. What happened? Did he drop her? The baby tried to pull himself together. She knew we were following her…She looked at us…She smiled and waved and the eagle took her over the sea…I cant see her anymore. I ducked down and squinted through the window. Me either. She was gone. He was crushed. We both were. There wasn’t anything either of us could say. Mind if I smoke? He didn’t. I inhaled and tried not to think. The baby whimpered and sobbed as quietly as he could. I wanted to cry. I rolled down the window even more so the sound of the wind could try to give us some privacy. I tossed my cigarette out of the window. We drove.

,

the trifecta

1. ain't my fuckin' problem.
2. whadyougonnado?
3. i got it.

William died: happy, young, and beautiful.

There was no room in the cab of the pick-up, so he sat in the bed. He did not mind this and in fact quite liked it. It reminded him of home, his childhood, tree houses, rivers, fields filled with fireflies, and old friends. Right then, he loved his life sitting in the bed of the pick-up. This was much better than any convertible. He loved how all the city’s lights shined on him, lit him up for everyone to see, how the crisp air, which came a little early this year, blew through his hair and over his teeth as he smiled face to face with the travelers sitting behind at the stoplights who smiled back or laughed or waved or showed faces of concern for his safety. He appreciated this small stage, the fleeting solitude and attention that it afforded him. He thought about how it was slightly uncomfortable sitting on the steel and how he would never see if the truck was to hit some obstacle in the road, a pot hole or a dog or cat, how he could very well fall out. He thought of all this, his possible end. he smiled.

before i die, i want to fight a dog.

my mother and i were driving on the highway on my 11th birthday when we picked this dog up off the side of the road. someone had apparently left him there for a reason, he was always shitting puking and pissing on himself. so we named him grandpa. grandpa lived with us for about a year then grandpa died.

i have as of yet never been shot, stabbed, mugged, jumped, struck by lighting, engulfed in flames, contracted a venereal disease, or cancer. so, until my track record suggests otherwise, i am currently invincible. 

"i gotta go my friend is in trouble."

"what happened?"

"i don't know he just texted me 'S.O.S', and i'm real worried cause we don't know anyone with a ship."

you know when a lady sound all sweet on the phone? she's got a nice cute voice then you see her and she's all weighing like three tons, and looks like she sings Oprah. you know Oprah, she's all mi mi mi feegaroh feegaroh feegaroooooooh.

I dream of a kitchen where the sun shines through the window, and where me and you could eat breakfast. Coffee and toast, the toaster on the kitchen table. And we would live at least on the second floor, because after living the last two years, height is a wonderful luxury. Bright white walls and tile floor, yellow sunlight, your dark hair, and our summer colored skin. All soon. In time. In time. I can hardly wait.

my half of 'sex in the city' chapbook

“The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.” I don’t have a problem. She tells me I have a problem, and my not  “admitting it” is a problem—not the problem but just a problem. But it seems to me that the not “admitting I have a problem” problem causing a problem is not my problem but her problem.

 

I don’t keep any old pictures or love notes. They are given Viking burials in an ashtray, and stomped out with a cigarette fresh from my lips.

 

He doesn’t say “ex”. He prefers “my last girlfriend” because in all reality it very well could be his last girlfriend.

---

I have no mother or a lover. The woman that kisses me every night sits on the moon at the neck of my bottle.

 

I will eat your hair, your dead ends, and all things in your way, your anchors. I will mow a path with my teeth and tongue for you and who you choose. (my stomach full of all this and booze.)

 

For she is the devil, and no one should care if the devil cries.

 

 

So sad to see that out of pillow talk that boomed, nothing will bloom.

 

old works

easter feast

the icebox is tapped, just a few beers left, decorated in blue ribbons, hidden from last nights crowd. we drink to fill our stomachs and our blood; i'd almost prefer a hard-boiled egg.

---

In her small bathroom he realized that this was the closest place to heaven; plenty of time to reflect, encased in a bright glimmering white, naked, he finally grasped "cleanliness is next to godliness". But, he thought, I can't stay here forever, and sometimes all a man can do is slip back into that dark conjugal bedroom, and smell the sulfur at the tip of his match. 

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when between a rock and a hard place, line your ceiling with various lengths of string. tie bells to the ends of the strings. each afternoon when you wake, walk through the bells, and when they ring, an angel will get its wings. then hope that one of those angels knows who the hell you are, and is flying toward to give you some sort of assistance.

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if you live in basement drink alot of beer, because it sucks to live in a basement, and if you have to piss, don't go upstairs. you're roommates will yell at you about all 'the dishes you are hording down there'. instead, piss in the 'dirt room'. its the room that doesn't have a 'real floor'. it's just dirt, so, its kinda like pissing outside. but, in the summer the sun will bake your piss and cause an awful stench. when this happens, buy a bag of lime and sprinkle it across the 'floor' of the dirt room', and pretend you are covering up something much more sinister. threaten your cat not to tell any one, and he won't because he loves you, and cats can't talk.