I ubëred to Topanga. Pinkheat, dust and iced-tea got stuck very practically no cars headed the other way. Call it “Narrative Lost” what did you smell pre-teen runaway drunk on the grass somebody’s yard in the valley. Ocean, mallbreeze ocean-draw, drive-thru
Capital One. Money dressed-up the palms. The night smells like fire and it’s not our identities burning. Did we know how we made real things by pretending to dream? Night smells like seasalt, watchdog on the cul-de-sac. Salt tastes like skin. Ocean a mouthful of bodies. Cold sand smelled like silence. In the too-familiar I began
not existing. Within objects. The table setting pulls back from my hands. The sun draws back its life. Nothing fed but our scars. The cars, their stability turns to wild water turns light hands in the red this scope is longer this weird daylight of end. Landscape of bloodsugar vertigo thigh muscle sensitized wound since you left my bones are heavier.
New gravity. Nude bra. A summer. Sweat collector babydoll tee arc of a parking
lot, edge of the concrete its summer crumbling side where we sat thinking forever as ever like anything else we did, we assumed Romeo, Romeo more than a thrill…
Romeo, echo delta this edge of my scalp skin set to: want. A degree in “to keep.” People moving away back into the lines outside of a Best Buy. The 90’s. New York or Baltimore sounds like our youth turning worldwide on digital radio. Who wasn’t still isn’t afraid? My body remembers discharging itself into the sharper kind of grass.
The white nights, white teeth hypnic jerk. Descartes in a darkroom I, too, am sure I’m awake taking pictures but not of what this reminds me. Siri’s confused. I look out the window. Just snow light. No image so. Or is it a swimming pool season, location, et cetera
slithery pool light any body of water slip your heat in and draw back the wet bundle
drenched with “and” silence and silence and familiar
silence. Whiskey [I am]
[I don’t] hotel [I know, I know] [What is] Yankee
candle, flattened pillow. Smudge in my palm says uncertainly, “Never.” [I know] [I am]
We watched that film “The Swimming Pool.” I saw a picture of my body Really Naked [who’s that] from the back [I turned] 17 that year online. Call it “Narrative Cost” defrosting
in darkness edited hypnic jerk. As I begin not existing … Watch this: the men piss on a woman good old flickering firelight and last of all your ex steps forward as he unbuckles… Someone’s always making the arc of contact towards flesh. My art
history teacher said Lee’s douche hung in the bathroom. Night smelled like pine… dead fire… piss… [I turn] [say won’t] [I wrote] “No Point.” A large circle drawn in pencil somewhere inside… nowhere is nope. Narrative won’t. A scene she wrote…
actress angrily masturbating after a fight. They laugh. Okay, that’s dignity call it a wrap. Later, I surrender my boots in a parking lot. In a dark room, watching my life’s world side turn. [What is] Inside joke. Inside-out denim jacket. Denim both sides. Denim all the way down. Her long thighs. [I wrote] Nevermind, I can’t even find a beginning.