MY HAIR
there are times i’m furious about my hair and just want it away from me, piled like a shitty pastry a million miles in the sky. and then
other parts of me like sand and like salt and like to let it all fall into a tangled mess of seaweed.
MY HAIR
there are times i’m furious about my hair and just want it away from me, piled like a shitty pastry a million miles in the sky. and then
other parts of me like sand and like salt and like to let it all fall into a tangled mess of seaweed.
SIMPLE LOVE
my monarch butterfly woke me up, she showed me the mourning doves, and once we got back home she gave me a simple ring for a simple love.
THE SURFLINER
in the aisles, a revolving door of disappointed passengers paced restlessly, denied seats on the overbooked train. one of the lucky ones, i sat and listened to psychedelic rock as seascape views offered momentary glimpses into the spontaneous, ungraspable art of the universe.
i could’ve passed for a San Diego native in my faded t-shirt, trucker hat, and clear sense of careless style. sitting in front of me was a young Persian student holding half a dozen yellow roses in a glass jar between her thighs. her dark, timeless hair broke in lush waves upon her shoulders, draped in a knitted sweater of black and burgundy. third in a line of young women fortunate enough to win a seat, she had followed a petite blonde in blue jeans named Amanda—her necklace and emblazoned handbag made no mystery about it. she must’ve been the youngest of the line, her face caked in makeup, her phone bedazzled, and her laptop decorated with a hundred flowery stickers. before her, the oldest of the three, a confident young woman of Asian descent, took phone calls and clicked away on her laptop covered in ads for modern marijuana businesses.
the Surfliner kept few secrets about its riders. before the ladies, a young, awkward student had sat beside me and connected to the WiFi so he could write an essay making the case for his admittance into some research program. and before him i’d been joined by a fly as fuck half black guy donning zebra print shades, a black leather jacket, and loose grey sweat pants. a DJ from DC, he had just announced to 200 followers on Twitter that tonight would be his west coast debut. then he unwrapped and swallowed a few marijuana gummies.
the train pulled into Union Station, and the city’s sunny sorrow welcomed us.
THE CITY
there are monsters in the city silently creeping in the open square eyes hollowed faces weary false spirits waiting to grapple your self away.
HOMES
i’ve lived off California, sandwiched between a lake and a pope. i’ve lived off Ocean, short slide into the organic corporation. i’ve lived on the banks of the Franklin River, survived by creating a clamor in the rocks.
HUSTLING
i haven't been able to breathe well in over a week but it's okay thanks to the pink powder scent lingering on my lapel, sleeves, beard, brain.
money is fake, she says, energy is real. show me around, i say, you have so many rooms.
so much space.
in the morning i can't get out of bed but i'm not sick.
other people complain about the cold but there is no home like an old Levi's fleece stained by sunlight the color of dead skin. the sky? burnt orange horizon, pale blue dome. the bitch? spry and restless, full of energy and restlessness. the woman? alive and full of love, love, love, love.
ZANY
for the love of loud we drove three hours northeast to Grass Valley to cut six tracks in two days.
my love too fled north with a sister and the kelpie in tow to see their grandmother in Redding, meth capital of the world.
the city stayed put, vibrating anxiously with shallow breaths of sea spray and sun.
DOWNTOWN
the people a torrent racing madly nowhere one by one a throng mindless overflowing.
THE GREAT RECEIVER
The Great Receiver receives all as it is. She breathes, and there is air. She drinks, and there is water. She listens, and there is music. She beckons, and the universe swells.
DOORS ARE OPENING
everyone reached for the sky captivated less by the sublime than by the strength of their own limbs. not too far away, at the bus stop, lay a poor woman slowly battered down by just cold enough nights and mean looks. a flock of pigeons observed the intersection, perched and disinterested—and yet interested— deciding whether there was something to do.