Not for me at least. 
Bottles of pills, the three for months,
the ones I need and sometimes skip,
in a paper bag from Kaiser crunched up 
in the glove compartment of my pick-up truck. 

Driving from the Sunsets I used to seek
the dog is sitting next to me,
Lucinda and Sharon’s strumming all for me.

Searching for my farm in Nebraska unknown,
where the job awaits 

and my man slow-dances at the bar on Tuesdays.

He forgets my name but not my drink, 
his denim’s stained, his toothpick
soaked, 
looking like he’ll hit you with his eyes, 

that’s when he cries, 

when a strong man dies, 

it’s what his daddy used to say, 

Daddy’s something he likes to say. 

He promises he’s never satisfied, 
promises he’ll fade away, 

it’s what he wants

His only want, 
the power of his certainty, 
the tears on his cowboy cheeks over the stars outside the club, 
the muffled sounds of neon crust his skin with dirt and 
the tilted hat masks his pain. 

He sets the five AM alarm to work it out, 
always working, never thinking, handiwork, 
the medicine of using hands, 
sweating blindly, parched for water so he lights a fag and drinks his milk, 
has a rocking chair that overlooks the oaks
but,
prefers the wooden steps instead, 

The ones that lead him to his farm and to his work where he works to pass the days 
and gaze 
at the nautical sky as the Sun dips beneath the plains behind him, 
in his Nebraska unknown, 
the one I found for him, 
the one that’s far from what he used to know. 

The Tuesday’s rolls around, 
those tumbleweed days into nights, 
slow-dancing at the bar like the ladies we are, 
lassoed and roped from whiskey to groped 
Daddy this and daddy that, 
safeword’s the whispers mother never shared with you 
the secrets of what you are, 
the maps of where you’re going, 
where they wanted you to go, 

And boy
were you going. 

But where you going now? 

The bottle’s running low. 
The other two are shot to hell. 
Too broke to have the farm 
but broke enough for handouts.

The ones that

That keep you in California. 
Bring you back to California. 
Trap you lost in California. 
For that 

crinkled bag, 
the three bottles for months, 

the pills you need but sometimes want to skip. 
Sure to die, but sure to ignore,
to flee with Ruffy in that pick-up truck 
and daydream of slow-dancing at the bar with what you are, 
no, what you wanted, 
knowing what you wanted but you’ll never be. 

Wanted the Nebraska unknown and tumbleweed dreams, 
blackened journal lines, line-dancing too
Something else that’s more for me,

Driving back to L.A.,
prescription filled,
every day and every time,
wanting to be free. 

There’s this
paralyzing stiffness
of a red-hot poker 
with the head-shaped heart of a bull
that pulsates with a pumping gravity
up and in until it’s through, 

busting through,
the trachea and coming out the mouth,
that’s,
that’s what’s pinned me

into the ground.

What was once the silence of agony
now
but a
gaping hole in the refractory.

After the I Love You’s bust 
the load’s for you but no, none for me, our hands began to slip. 

Cold feet,
the cold sweats
the
terminology for whenever the body stops shaking but the soul is still rumble-ing, the uh –

Catatonic
save the dread.

The euphoria of your skin, 
pressed-pasted into mine
now shrouded 
by the knowingness of one day growing,
going,

ultimately limp. 

That the fires dwindle into ember, 
as the air we breathe begins to freeze,
the sun you used to shine on me, turns its back for good. 

And not for nothing, 
but the yearning desire to mourn for the moon, 
to dream again of what was had, what’s needed now,
needing to knead your presence into absence
into something now forgotten, all of it my fault,
with that

stupid
fucking
paralyzing stiffness.

That comes from having you.

Of
having you.

Of knowing you, you knowing me,
not knowing what to do, knowing that you’re knowing me, 
the
matter of time
before someone goes for good.

For fear of what you desire, I can’t give to you
my

my moving deeper-closer into you,
it was never something I could be.  

Fuck man
that pulsating agony, 
the impotence,

Of never knowing who to be.

we took our hands into the pines and
pined
for the view we knew we knew,
and begged it to be new, at least renewed,
setting Sun, speckled, caught
in the pools like tears we sought
looking down the hill at Cedar Grove.

Mistaken mounds for mountains climbed,
ascended once again
for that view of Oz on Bunker Hill, the one I showed you once
the one you promised was ours at last.

Asking how it’s been, insisting nothing’s wrong,
there’s nothing wrong, but something’s wrong
and sometimes people are simply wrong,

the placation in omission,
the appeasement of a view.

Cross-wired fires, deathscrolls inspired,
everything’s fine with talk of wine
and where to go once we’re down at our cars

that are parked by the Greek.

Keys in the ignition, there’s the thoughts of our position
do we flee or drive into a tree, fucking
tired of the rhyme and reason.
Our
pathologies in treason, inside in spite of what we knew
was best for us,
that view we knew we knew
renewed.

Until the inevitable flames of Indian summer come around
and the mistaken mounds of mountains climbed
are once again scorched
by the cross-wired flashes of all things hot
and we incinerate into phoenix ash with the promised blossom,
or unfurled crimson wings
and blinded flight towards our setting
Settling Sun.

Asking how it’s been, insisting nothing’s wrong,
there’s nothing wrong, but something’s wrong
and sometimes people
we’re simply wrong.

Some things don’t know what’s best for them
it’s why they don’t know what’s wrong with them.






In my dad chair and at the beach,
just south of Incubator Isle
I found a parking spot on West Channel Road.

Crotch-forward watching presence of boys with their volleyballs and lambskin speedos,
dancing for pose the lot of them, though not one in particular,
intimidated by the dude alone, ‘we will never be like him.’

All the while,

The sand’s ahead of me,
the overlook from my balcony on Dumaine.

I wonder, thirst,

to swim in the bath of Sun and drown in each other’s moonlight,
our names forgotten and tomorrow’s ‘You Said Something’s’

before longing for the promised view, those parched dreams of you,

in my dad chair and at the beach.

The way speckled dust soars
like flocks of gulls behind the closed curtain of eyelids
the beating Sun lights them from behind.

In my dad chair and at the beach
I only dream of desert,
and not because it’s colder here than I thought it would be.

The pier’s to the left of you.

Tide rising,
at Five the dolphins break the surface of the horizon as they return from feeding.

At Six,
the gulls line up behind you to bathe in amber wind,
and the boys in speedos pack up as the molly returns them from Oz.

To know these things, the knowing waves to ride,
bucket basket of fried chicken plucked from Ralph’s,
the goodness in knowing the familiarity

that’s company of the most completed variety. It’s presence.

But who gives a shit about that.

Dig your feet into the sand,
they’ll keep cool and white.
Bulge pointed towards the sea the completed man and all alone,
legs crusted, sea salt, hell White Sands,
Truth or Consequences is a name of a town I know,
the Pacific brings you to New Mexico if you let it,
the wonder, rippling flesh of canyon land,

Far away from sissies sipping slurpees, skipping stones,
while kelp forests swerve and sway just under our surface.

Beasts and dominion,
the certainty of soil and sacred rock preferred.

Yes, crashing tides approaching
and

yes,
waves likes mountains seen off of Blueberry Ridge,
the dad bods of Winter, abso-fucking-lutely,
fawning thoughts of running into the ex who ridicules the sea of gratitude coursing through the veins,
it’s all here all of it if you let it,

But
There is some place, some place with
an exactness,
the decisiveness of the Earth,
where the moon rises above Albuquerque and I see it in your eyes,

With promise of a rising Sun as mine begins to dwindle beneath the sea.

At least in about an hour.

It’s boring to me, it isn’t necessary.
Not if you’re already looking,
listening,
fucking all around you.
The forcefulness of it all feels obligatory,
immediately offensive to the worlds

breathing around you
All of it combined into a singular

throbbing
pulsation that ignites
brilliantly

like soaking in the mirror of the Sun,
the breeze of the Pacific hitting the back and front of you, but like it does back East and South,
Bahia Honda,
the electrifying cool and warmth that hugs us so desperately,
yearning for eternity for us

to

Worship it like it were a God.

Like cock,
it wishes for us to worship it for the God that it is,

powerless, all powerful and grateful,
the submission to the world meditation only dares to dominate.

An old lady with a hunched back had just left the Bar @ Pacific Theaters (at The Grove)
and was headed for the door. 

She was pulling a parking voucher out of her purse to get it stamped.
And she had just finished her beer,

I want to say after watching ‘Overboard.’

Voucher in hand she slowly lurches off her stool and with a crane cranks herself towards the
revolving doors that would lead her out of the Pacific Theaters at The Grove towards the fountains that dance for Sinatra and always Sinatra even during Christmas

Outside the Pacific Theaters at the Grove.

Some dude on a date with a guy nudges his newfound boy-toy’s shoulder,
Points at the lady as she tries to push herself out and through the doorway.

And like,
She’s caught in some sort of kinetic vortex,
battling at the handles for the cycle to go her speed as an eager couple late for their movie tries to barrel on through,
Leftover quesadilla in their Cheesecake Factory plastic bag with the emblazoned cursive red print that allows them to assume they’d just dined and died in Vienna,

But with quesadillas.

Meanwhile this dude with the baby-trick’s just getting a kick out of the shit,
Nudging on and pressing it onto his bought-out ass piece wearing Penguin and some
Florsheim’s,
You know,
dressed to impress in LA (he should’ve worn a graphic tee),
And he knows it with his hands in his pockets
You can see his upset from his being asked to look at what makes his ride-home feel vindicated and immune to the amorphous curse of time,
As him and his other buddies crack yes now,
Something about WD-40 on the bitch.

The young man does nothing to help the lady

As she hobbles onward and into the night light off dancing fountains and 20 dollar salads without salmon at La Piazza.

Quesadilla couple makes it to their movie.

I think the boys with their boys were headed for the same auditorium.

I would’ve done something but I was a next in line for a beer,

at the Bar @ Pacific Theaters,

This one time in the Pacific Theaters lobby at The Grove.