Saturday, May 31, 2014


the grass was an undulating mattress of rolling hills and generous acreage, zigzagging blades of green, surrounded and lined by silver walkways and golden sporting fields. the earth was communicating along the length of my spine. beneath a tree. pinned by gravity, cradled by soil. looking for shapes in the tree branches. listening to ringtones of tiny chirping birds, beeping perfections, sharp chortles. the afternoon sun a delightful nuisance against the playful park noises. my head was resting on a tale of two cities. the book. already preparing myself for that night's dreams.

being in a paris-like version of paris with a train stop that, on weekdays, stepped out onto onto a floor of the building within which I was staying.

everyone thinks i'm being looked at but me. oblivious. i was on stage in santa monica and i caught one. this girl, she was beaming at me through hours of sierra nevada consumption and i can still see her smile. it threatened to break free from the edges of her face. she shined light on me. in front of the crowd i told her i'm not used to seeing young vibrant women at these things, so when i see you, i see you. i see you. where have you been hiding all this time? the best place when we were young was in the clothing hamper or that dark little closet in the back of the walk-in pantry. now it's trickier, like driving around los angeles, looking through the windshield for an opportune place to make love in the car.

Friday, May 30, 2014

day 24

stark-raving sober is what the guy called himself before recovery. nevermind is misspelled because of the nirvana album. everyone is in pain because pleasure is apirational and significant in forwarding evolution. i almost made it to thirty years of age without being invited to a proper wedding. i asked the salesman at men's wearhouse if that was impressive or sad. a little bit of both. he said. like everything in life. i said.

surrounded by genius.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

remember to first bring you

and just like that, the blood wakes up. it's spontaneous when the senses meet a stimulus. you walk and talk about the complex interrelated mystery that is a family. and it's strange how a comedy I wrote five years ago could still dramatically hold true. she drew a circle around us in the sand. nights ago, a girl from my childhood grabbed a rosebud and threw the petals over my head, white with pink edges, they splendidly dispersed, swayed and floated like remembrances or opportunities. she gave me a tiny yellow flower. i grabbed a bundle of jasmine. the full moon dilated within a powder lavender sky that lowered to the same hue of blue. i have no shadow and then i do. my dad said, his lungs are clear, his heart beats slow and strong. my mom told me, she's glad i figured out the things she didn't, as early as i did. my sister held guardian over me as i drunkenly slept on a lacma lawn, her a fawn. my sister's loyal chihuahua guardian always runs to me excitedly, with it's little brain and everything, so long as my sister stays in the room. my sister and i hung out at mission beach and listened to her teenage punk music and she thought girls were looking at me, while i thought she was a lion full of love. i am an amalgamation of the people in my life. i am heart wide-open getting pummeled by their energy. i stand on my own two feet. in sand. dirt. piles of crumpled papers and notes written on old-fashioned pale green diner tabs. i see faces. talk like a depraved sailor. marvel at the nuances of vocabulary. fumble inane half answers when a customer asks me where the salmon's from. find the line to get a burrito at whole foods. note the climate change. record temperatures hitting the southland. i will adjust again and again to the climes. somehow building upon that which can not be stated in any rational terms of certitude.

Friday, May 9, 2014

Marble Countertops

People. You see the same people in the early morning cafes around town. Recurring faces, characters. I've served them coffee and food and I've been one of them. I can't speak for those sleeping-in folks but the a.m. crowd is a group haunted by loud dreams, nights, memories.

Austin, Texas was strange. I had ridden the Greyhound bus there from another town. One Saturday morning I awoke frightened by a ghost I couldn't shake and we paced the entire city and there was nobody alive but me.

Queenstown, New Zealand I did the same, I was younger and there were people and a cozy cafe. I had a perfect plate of French Toast.

Paris, France I was exhilarated. I'd saved one baguette, chomped on it while I dragged my bag behind me on roller wheels along bumpy sidewalks. Snuck on the train. The sun ached up burned and aged behind the suburbs. I hurried behind a man to get into the airport and held my breath. Then I took off back into all the space.

That's it, the space here, it might be too much. I think I might do better in a city where people cover me from head to toe.