me. help. i can't get full. am eating too too much. am spending too too much $$$ on food. goo. don't know what is up. am feeling insatiable. mouth waters. burrito. sandwich. gaar. nachos. pizza. beer. all jazz. all bad. bad yogurt. fruit. pretzels. mooooo. milk. all jazz.
it stung with you. of course, that's why i liked it. she said. you could sting me and get away with it. but that was the problem. you got away, with it.
how many times you wanna do it like this. an internet writer talking about nina simone said male writers obsess about sex cuz they're missing anything primal from their coddled western lives. that sex is only it. but i'm talking about heartache, er, break, er, stale fumes of insignificance/significance.
how bout childbirth. i've witnessed it. the neon blue of the umbilical cord. the blood. the mother. i don't remember the immediate months after. just love.
how bout the time we saw that man with the cracked head. downtown, on the sidewalk. we pulled our car over and tried to help him. waited for the ambulance. i did the same thing again in venice one morning. alone. walking to the beach. a man with a cracked head. blood, yes, in both instances. and no one would let me borrow their phone to call the ambulance. finally, did. finally they showed up, and said he did this all the time, cracked his head. the man. he did it for attention, they said. he cracked his head for attention, they said.
i was kicked in the stomach by a horse.
in malibu we lived in a trailer on top of a burned down house from the 1993 fires. all that remained was concrete foundation. ruins. the trailer was big for a trailer. we had no electricity. the city was upset we were there so we had no electricity beyond the extension cord our neighbors ran from their house across a driveway and through one of our windows. three prongs. tv. cable box. floor lamp. sometimes we'd unplug one to use something else, like a boombox or hair dryer.
we filled a cooler with ice each day to store milk, soaking wet butter, eggs. then drained it out the side door down into the garden twelve feet below. it was a far drop out that side door. the trailer stood higher than the land. my mom grew roses and trees in the land. built fences. we overlooked the pacific ocean. it was a full blue. we were indians. we were feral. we existed between the grooves of modernity and something sweaty and primal. we did it for years and then she made some money selling it.
as a grown young man, i went back with a young woman who meant a bunch to me. there was now a house. the view was better than i remember. the land more ancient. the street just as steep, like it was encouraging the person on it to go back down and join humanity at sea level.
