ronny

TURNING 30

i came into life crying, shaking fists at the bright lights, clenched fright at the wild sounds muffled no more but naked as me, a carnival of flesh and compassion and madness and computer buzzing brains thousands of miles, every direction electric lines, signatures of destiny.

30 years old in a week, i will not go in crying or violent or whining because i am a man, deeply flawed, fucked in the head, fantastic in imagination, organs desensitized to life, in love, laughing at even the worst jokes and letting the tears flow at the most mundanely divine, beautifully worthless moments that drag by on slime.

TRUTH

i love things that are true, like

BEFORE THE SUNDAY CONCERT

the gold rush in my glass fizzes with loneliness, expensive for a sunny day spent in the darkness of dalva, a deserted old favorite where i wait for my brother and sister.

COMMUNICATION

navigating the wild seas of communication— the first, seen w eyes wide and amazed, another, familiar, new, energizing, another, a punch cocktail blast of a typhoon, another, a misty morning reflection, another, double dutch rainbows in the sky, another, just the expanse, breathing, the last, blowing in the wind— casts us into the most beautiful chaos.

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.