two months of this year have ended & I remember when the year 2000 sounded strange. the concrete here doesn't feel any different & our feet are all beaten from walking thirty blocks. we stole an orange from someone's front lawn & ran up through fairfax & the mexican homes to the overwhelming tar pits where skeletons were found & disassembling lovers always threaten to jump in.
we swam in our skin in the cold pacific & our white blood filled bodies looked like costumes. the south central blocks cave in like a ghost town & we have to question why we ever wanted to be there.
everything is lonely & confrontational. I want to become invisible & scare you to hell & show up on every block in haight-ashbury & play my harmonica. & pick up our mail at a literary landmark where our aspirations get a little too nervous to talk. stand on columbus & recite you poems that I've been writing in my head since the day we left home. keep drawing palm trees & fantasize about the pacific but start moving on because now we can live it.
get me the hell out of L.A. & back to the east bay.
if the ocean knew that I was taking it's picture would it create a high tide & drown out my insides? I could swim for my whole life & never reach the bay on the other side of the world, or turn into a wave. I hope there's sand in my ears for the next three years.
if you can accept that I'll never love you as much as I would have then, then I can accept that this is where we are & where we should stay if we had the guts.
I hate to say it but I am fucked for life.
so here it is, my reservation for the cemetery at the bottom of the ocean.