indian summer

You and I driving up and down california talking about our moms. In bed with you on an afternoon before our night jobs. Memorizing you. I lay there with your hair sticking to our sweat layered skin, my chest hair rubbed off onto both of us, urging myself to memorize you.

I wake up when you come in at night, feeling completed in time. wait for you to slowly rise in the morning just to hear what you have to say. it's hard prying myself from you to start some days, the world out there doesn't get better than what we have awakened.

It's fun to try. It's fun to go out there and try, to fall on deaf ears, to ignite a few minds, to try. I had this thought about how we work so hard trying to make a living from our art it's important to also think that perhaps making our art might be what's keeping us alive.

I've been in the same timeless dream since I met you. I don't recognize any of it and willingly accept all of it, thirst for this life of ours, all its challenges and strengths and all.

young bitches in wonderland

we were young bitches in wonderland. we walked the walkstreets with squeaky Converse shoes and chests strong to and from the ocean and in between where there was nothing at all. we'd leave bars having drunk out of red tecate cans (or whatever was the cheapest) and if they gave us a pint glass we'd watch the bubbles rise up in the candle light to avert our eyes. many nights we'd run home, even if we were alone we'd run home, cuz being a young and fit couple of young bitches we had extra batteries to spare, even if at the time we felt like the tiredest sons of bitches on the planet