SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Snow queen. Summer sun dress. Sunshine. Trauma. Calamity. Boats. Chesapeake Bay. Water. Hospital. Hospital. Forest. Summer. Night. Alcohol. Marijuana. The end of childhood. The eternal selfless quality of love. Breath. Death. Time travel in a broken time machine. Quarrels with the reaper. Heightened senses. Fate. Jugular vein. Vampire. Love. Mental ward. You lived there. The floorboards creak and no one walks across them. Music video set. Fake snow and sugar water in an antique whiskey bottle. Styrofoam crows and repurposed kimonos.
The tattooed gangster slept naked in a rocking chair shot to death on the funeral of his birthday. The dead mongoloid poet burped words through the diamond beak of a prehistoric fish. Hooks in her ears. Rings in her nose. Toy train sets chugging lonely in the basement of fatherly regret. A scientist knows no God but the vanishing of himself surely into the unknown.
A bankrupt toy store bulldozed to build a live work space. A live work face is painted on. Clown make-up and my childhood trauma dancing at the wedding. I think of suicide more often now than at any other time in my life. When you’re angry you’re in love and you’re in love when you’re angry. These disturbed words are the choice I made to drink alcohol while smoking cigarettes. Those poisons grow negativity and short tempers.
Bless the wounded joker who already dreams of dismantling these desperate lines. White stucco churches. Mediterranean cliffside village with winding staircases reflected by Dr. Seuss. The cedar forest. The coral reef. The field office in the Arctic. The kitt fox. The lantern lit arched bridges of a buddhist temple in the woods. Trout streams and surfboards. Baseball. Comets. Hula hoopers. Chinese Opera dancers. The Russian flag. All at the bottom of the sea. The hall of fame. The library of all time. Outer space. The one star that everyone can see. We all are that. You feel it now and you feel it when it’s gone. True love is the loss of self.