For Holden Lyric, Leigh Ann Kyle, and Alice Clemens.
there’s a seagull zooming across the window—the window with the crack in the upper-left corner. i saw that girl’s crack at vons and her thong ride up to her headlights like the two on the semi that almost unwittingly elbow-nudged the door of my ’97 mustang and you all screamed and i swerved and we made it back home to cut the cantaloupe—the one from vons. that girl’s thong i saw over there was green. it was kind of tacky looking but a little hot kind of like the heat i’m getting from this whisky it’s mostly smooth but there’s a bit of heat and a bit of cantaloupe on the palate or am i making it up because we just finished off the cantaloupe?
But I think I’m
the exact right amount
close my eyes
my brain spins
revving in neutral—
but feeling the quiver
of the engine.
Then it’s tomorrow. And I’m back in gear. And my head doesn’t hurt, oddly enough. And we’re at the bike store/coffee shop combo—i think it’s called chains and wangs, no that makes no sense, it’s not chinese and it doesn’t rhyme with “wangs” it’s cranks and grinds and we’re on capistrano…
uhh…capistrano whatever the fuck street I don’t know. streetlight’s on the stereo “failing flailing” i’m singing the words out of order and we just passed chains and wangs…
er…cranks and grinds
turn around turn around turn around you need to go south toward the ocean
shit…i mean west this isn’t long beach i’m all turned around turned around and
i don’t know what’s wrong with me, man, i really don’t