There is no freedom.
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
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
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. 

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

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,

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,
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

pulsation that ignites

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


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
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.

What’s your burden, baby, out of bourbon, baby?

Why you so mad, sweet thing?

You’ve got the world bending over just for you
it’s got you on its shoulders,

it’s no one’s fault you’re not doing what you should with it.

You’ve got the stars and you’ve got the swagger,

You’ve got the waves at Will Rogers and your legs in denim, kicking tires, lighting fires all the way to Bandelier.

Big guy,
You’re always on the move. My man,
You’re always burning through the never-ending fuel. 

So why you always drowning to scream alone?

No te preocupes, mi corazon, don’t dry yourself out.
It’s not your fault you move so fast pero it is your job to ensure you never slow.

Put the glass down, baby cakes,
keep the ice for you to cool,
you ain’t reigning in your bronco spirit by forgetting how to run at night.

You were meant to be the dude who exhausts and explodes

towards infinity.

Infinity like a stardust snow


an unwavering ocean,

Worlds deep, fifty thousand fathoms deep,
And you’re resting just on top,
Forever moving as you rest.
Resting as you always move, resting cause you always move,

So why you angry, stud?

It’s no one’s fault you’re set to see it all and feel it all and scream it all and fuck it all
and it’s no one’s doing you were always going to tire

From never being tired. 

From always being hungry.

From always wanting more with your insatiable grace.

It’s no curse. There is no haunting.

Resign to your fury,
the blunder of your gluttony,

There you’ll find your peace.

Fires in the sky of California and sunset in the desert’s been chased beyond the sepia void,
where mountains once screamed for the title of what’s left on our horizon.

It’s as though they’d all gone fucking mental, but now they’re gone, too, don’t you see?

They were onto something.

I never thought I was insane,
just that I allowed myself to be treated undisputedly towards and through the brink of my own,

Keeping cool,
For now, though, thinking of when you asked me if I’d ever been to Aspen.
That helps.

Instead of separate homes, a part of me wishes we were riding towards the Gas Lite, at the end of the line,
Down on Wilshire, Karaoke Wednesdays every night,
And you’re in your board shorts and flip flops and once we’re there we spill the spells, and you

tell me there’s a secret reservoir somewhere apparently in Malibu, where
If you keep going straight down old Crags road, there’s a lake nearby made from a dam.
You say we’ll find a Left up ahead and once we take it that’s where we find our spring,

After singing Kokomo (there’s PBR’s in there somewhere), we drive onward upward onto Kanan road,
And at the dead of night,
The deadest before Dawn,
We mistake the moon for the 5 PM we used to know two hours ago and suddenly my bumper’s not falling off like it used to (You’d pulled over and fixed it while I napped through the blink of an eye) and when I woke we were flying and you were talking about barnacles in Massachusetts.

There’s no longer a light to the heat but lower the window, see?
It feels like it’s still there. It now brims and breathes, but from below, the peddled ground, you feel it don’t you, it’s become what made it so?

On the way after our dip at the Century Reservoir,
You’re sure to stop for some slushees and airplane liquor to quench my lungs from the American Spirit that scorched my breath a pack ago today.
I hold your hand and you
My crotch. Your grip’s a kiss,
Raspberry lisps
As we’re driving onward through the Mojave,
Towards the snows of Colorado and you’re driving,
the thoughts of ski lifts
and thrusts in some hot tub keep our eyes ahead of what’s already become of us now,
In this moment here,
driving towards the fires
In the skies,

of California.

I made a playlist and titled it ‘Suspect you’re driving from Albuquerque through Madrid towards Santa Fe,’
Thinking at some point we’d listen to it
All at once,
All of it in one sudden moment like when
we’re at some point walking along the bend at Sandoval towards the Georgia O’Keefe museum and we’ve dared the attempt at holding each other’s hands in public. 

You’ll point to the painting of the Pelvis and I’ll cry to the video where she talks about the importance of loving America, 

Not that I know what that means today
(only what my father said it meant when I was a child). 

You’ll point out her affinity for New Mexico and I’ll weep myself out of bondage, 
all knowing you’re knowing the only way to dry the droplets of my doubt are to surrender me to the cuff to nutsack device you procured from Mr. S; the leather shop in San Francisco 
(Or so I hope).

I think I’d maybe start it off with Cassandra Jenkins, 

She’s got a tune about finding one’s center and repeats the motif of ‘1, 


as the orchestration climbs a mountain, gasping and entirely out of breath, David Carradine but with a climax,

Elongated breathing

The summoning of accepting existence 
in those loafers of mine you adore. 

We’re sometimes hesitant of the company that makes sense, even when it hurts at times and know that’s per the course.  

More objectively, worse off, we try to go after the kind of love that makes sense, but only to the periphery, 
we settle.

Norman Lear once wrote a line of script about the sanctity of a home. Of coupling. Of the connection between two souls that fortify a preserved dimension of the Universe that belongs

to its inhabitants. 

I think that’s true, and very real; 

a confirmed reality that works for the two. 

This is the narrative now. 
The truth we choose to inhabit; hold.

Such as the amber light of Sunset hitting the darkening corners of February in Brooklyn, and taking a photograph of it. Choosing that over the steam of a humming radiator. Or the onyx cool blue of cold. 

The word Clandestine always reminded me of the word Casual, 

perhaps it’s so easy to feel it when you say it out-loud. 

The happenstance. The uh – 

Unprovoked familiarity. 

I thought of opting in some Fleet Foxes; they sing of transcendentalism through the guitar strums of Appalachia. You look up at the night sky when in Hollywood and Fall powder-blankets over you, teleported directly above, from the twilight night of Tennessee.  


road-head has a specific rhythm. 
It goes to the tune of Dollywood.

There’s an ownership that comes with saying ‘I love you.’
It’s a commitment to acknowledging the one day the person you’ve always told that to no longer does.  
Scary and exhilarating yet so many say that they don’t gamble. 

Maybe it’s something less of. Perhaps it’s something you sometimes keep to yourself, 
not to protect but to cherish. 
Sriracha smudge on the cheeks not protected. Rib sauce maybe but because the cowboy fantasy slows down the bat lash at least in my head, 

There’s something to the man that expects you take in what he’s driving through. It’s a level of dominance that should never be taken lightly. The impressionable gleam behind the frame that implores one to look all around them.

I’ll throw in something from the new Lana, 
her patriotism convinces me it’s still alive in me, and some Silvio,
Keep it acoustic and get that one song off of Evermore, I’m a millennial,

Kate and Carly, the Kills, Hypnotize,

Tornadoes loving you and is it heaven or Las Vegas? 

Plum mountains skyscrapers and origin cliff basins, 
I want it to sound like view head-turn towards the prism bouncing off your glasses,
as you drive us over the gorge

And towards the Sun. 

Especially when the light tucks under the horizon and the Rio Grande becomes nebulous
and in the dark. Good eyes with intent don’t have a thing to say out-loud.

That’s why there aren’t enough songs about Santa Fe.

I have built the corners that scream at me, 
and suddenly I’ve got myself a room. 
At night, there’s a growing shadow,
I’ve seen it out my window when I was looking out on Mars.

It’s a figure of a creature
Made of gold but made of clay 
Limbs like rolled-out play-doh, through the palms, the squiggly worms, 
Lanky limbs with big hands and big feet and a neck 
cracked through and through that carries a massively oversized egghead skull with no features but it’s hang. 

No ears and no mouth, 
Piercings. Indents. Dimples, grins. 
A void 
Instead of a soul
And yet somehow and
Every time there was just something about it where 
You could still 
That it was there
For you
Beyond hearing you, smelling you, seeing something you’ve did, done, are, 
After that, or maybe before


Through it’s glaze refracted shadow upon the eyes, it’s just awful

Even on the brightest of nights,

As if the world surrounding it succumbed to its event horizon, washed away upon its touch, for he was not of this world but from the world where
Coming over here, to me at night
Like this, all the fucking time as though it were a gloved figure,
But as a being. Sentient. Mew-Two level shit. And,
It needed this 

It needs this cloak

Whenever he wanted to come inside to the room with all the corners, 
He just
Sifts through the walls and into your home, as though it bled through the pores of concrete and what was once your view is now your guest,
In this cloak, this
Nebulous, black gown of the static that comes after one’s settled down and is laying down in bed, face up, the lights are off and you’re eyes are adjusting but then once they have you sort of like,  Accept the darkness, or some shit and like
There’s that static – that comes after the blackness? And the more you let it go the more it festers but the more you try to pin it down and night-focus on it it just dissolves back into the regular hue of night this thing doesn’t wanna ride or die in. 

So, because it’s trying to avoid the obvious of startling me so overtly,
It settles in the corners. Cause it knows,  Corners are always the darkest bits of the room, whatever light goes in, 
It ain’t coming out. 
And so it’s able to use it’s static drapery in those corners because between the static and the light going in and never coming out, 
It blends in – so that corner – within a second or four’s consideration – is only ever gonna look like that corner of night

Same token
You could beat the system in a way, and really the way you beat it is also unfortunately the way you first went about doing things the first time you ever knew he was actually there, in the shadows, 
In the periphery is where you see the most 
And this maneuver tricks the creature, but ultimately, renders one exactly where it wants you to be. 

Directly under it. 

Through the periphery is how you see it move. Like a headlight through the blinds when a car makes a turn down the road, it flows through its effusing shroud of clouding, clumping tulle, knowing translucent, especially at Four 

Twenty-seven A
It makes no sound, for it cannot hear. 
Not that it intends on avoiding the things on my dresser, my lamp, my passport, the artichoke ceramic 
Or that accidentally does so on occasion
You know, a little ‘Oops!’ 
A little ghost oops,
It flows through it all, gloved finger

From one corner 
To the next! 

It looks like the fucking grinch from the side of your eye, hopping chimney to chimney,
Santa’s bag of tulle

And you keep shifting with your head in the pillow, you know, now that’s you’re on to the motherfucking piece of shit, 

As it goes
One corner, to the other corner 

Grabs a sip of water, then another corner 
Until finally, 
It’s only at the bottom periphery, where you imagine the lower bit of your eyeball can see, 

And that’s because he’s now at the foot of your bed. 

And usually that’s as far as he goes. 

Night after night
He lingers there,
Maybe taking notes, snap-chatting Tik Toks like a goon
But he’s looking at you. 
And it’s then at that moment and every moment like it when you’ve figured to think that by turning to the side of your pillow or bringing up the duvet to your scalp you would suddenly make him go away. And the sensation he brought with him,
The drenched chill of vodka dripping down the underbelly of your spine, the cognizant mind and a pumping, warm heart at once existing within your frozen corpse. And that’s how you freeze in place until morning. 

But then there are the other times when he comes closer. 

He’s got Gumby limbs, you see, he’s able to stretch out from where he’s standing, He’s capable of looming – No!
is the wrong word. 
It’s as if, from its ankles, where ankles ought to be, it’s like
There’s this never-ending bit of leg coming out, rolled tightly within its feet or something under his sole, a fucking
Soft serve ice cream machine
You know, 
With the lever
But in reverse. 
And fully retractable, without any spill,
Same thing with its arms, but not it’s neck
It’s already got that big fucking head on it
And when he’s going bout it this way, you know
Starts hunching over 
Quasimodo but on intermittent fasting 
Not even reaching out for you
You’re not his snack
If he had pockets, that’s where he hands would be the way he leans in on you, keeping his arms curved the exact same way as his back, almost as though he were made out of paper,
And clay and gold
But mostly of construction paper with the way it all bends the same way at once while still stretching over you

You’re doing the best you can, right
You’re holding out and your spine is drunk as hell 
But you can feel air from his lurching in just
Pressing tighter on your lungs, like you’re the one side of a harpsichord unsung at the moment 
The closer he gets at you the more he grows out of the periphery but because you’ve looking at it this long you may as well just find some focus on it, the two of you are there and the bar is looking a little empty. 
Maybe it’s the surrender or the curiosity (there’s something about the two of them) but the head follows after the eyes. You realize your toes have pulled at your sheets and knotted them and kicked them to the floor and you realize you were straining your neck to begin with and now your head’s on the pillow the way it ought to be and you realize that this is it that we’re going in and you look up once last time for closure and he’s looking at you just the way he wanted to, you under him 

And the thought of screaming comes to mind
And you run with that for a while
Until you realize after the fifth or sixth time you can’t produce a noise. 

Nothing for you to hear. Hours made endless wailing for a whimper. It kills you a little bit, the futility. After a while you pick up on what’s going on and you’re just testing to make sure it’s actually true, that this is what’s happening, that this is what has happened, that this is what will happen.  Sometimes. The sometimes that last an eternity. 

And it wasn’t until I began picking up on that bit – 
It’s true frequency, I mean, the eternity that only lasted sometimes, the
Conjugal visitations
At the mid-top of 20 Seventeen

Just exactly what it was. 
Who he was, after all the shifts in belief

You’re too afraid of people doing to you what you’re unwilling to do to them

You’re too afraid the things you’ve done to people you suspect no one has done to other people

You are a raging narcissist

Daddy’s in you

It was a matter of the blood. 
The news of the recent at the time that had happened within my blood. 
The stranger looming over me not there to antagonize or terrify but rather welcome me into the clan of the undead. 
After the years in the nights of the screams and the face without a face that’s what all of it deduced itself towards. 
The inescapable neighborhood welcoming committee, 
Pills instead of pies, the shakes instead of hugs 
Or shakes, 
This ain’t Miami anymore. 
I cut the screams and settle in, looking up as I spell its name, 
There are almost jokes shared and stories told as he reaches with his hands the first time I’ve seen him do it and grabs my blankets off the floor and tucks me in, 
His head’s now shaping out like mine, I remind him when I was young and would run and my head would pull behind the rest of my body and now he dances for me like in Body Double and makes some tricks of his drapery and with time increased and settled 
Finally one day left me as I said goodbye and he pointed to my window
Promising the comfort of company the next time I stepped out onto Mars. 
The growing shadows receded, 
No telling what’s become of my room
As its corners crumble like Pompeii 
And all there was
was Space again.