If She Snores

The fat girl in the doorway is actually the last photograph taken of me before my sex change. I had it the following afternoon.

Actually my hunch is that fat girl up in the photo is probably recreating some slumber-party event that Emily Dickinson lived through over at her place in Amherst. The kind of event that forged and baptized her as a poet forever. Just a hunch. I feel traumatized LOOKING at it.

It's winter and somehow reality's the same only with a little more emphasis. All these little greasy details I'm picking at with the dirty utensils of my brain:

I tried to write her a letter today. I had all these questions lined up. Or I thought I did. Stuff she could tee off on. Wheelhouse material for her. Girls get asked a lot of stuff all the time, so when you come up with some fresh original questions she's never heard before about herself she probably figures SHE'S the girl to raise some NEW questions in your life. And she might be right. I'm not talking a one-night stand or a revenge fuck scenario---I mean two people with chemistry who've had a little time together. It's another hunch, but I think this is the sort of stuff maybe they think about while giving you sexual favors. When you know they're going that extra mile. NOT because they know you love them. It's because it makes them feel better than their friends.

In the letter I was trying to figure out if everybody's heart is a pawnshop of the detritus from everybody we care/d about, if all her people were herded into a room at one time, did she think I knew enough about her to return their items? Could she return mine to their rightful owners?

What exactly makes HER my big fat redeemable coupon and me hers, anyway?

Whose responsible for all the dents, ditches, gutters, sewers, training wheels, rats, unworn baby shoes, crop circles, tarot cards, affidavits, hornets nests, trapdoors, hedge mazes, daughters, wives, mothers, mistresses, priestesses, princesses, widows, turned tricks, busted etch-a-sketches, scattered building blocks, wine stained teeth, dirty sheets, stolen bouquets, penthouse balconies, limos with nowhere to go, whirlpools, parking meters, lost grocery lists, copper glowing street lights, carpeted hallways, secret gardens, invisible inks, fountains, burned libraries, video game fairies giving my little hero-self life from a heart shaped box, scars, fortresses, moats, intercoms, Ivory towers, safety deposit boxes, jukeboxes, questionnaires, horoscopes, morning breath, cat naps, uniforms, masks, Ophelias napping in the pond, Sphinxes, belly dancers, mermaids, aquariums, sticker books, gum under desks, alleys, statutory holidays, proms, birthday cakes, tree houses, childhood files, family vacations, bridges, suicide notes, crossword puzzles, love letters, dungeons, convertibles, islands, outhouses, umbrellas, pinups, bed hair, hubcaps, science experiments, blowup dolls, motels, cookbooks, backseats, private petting zoos, snores, posters on your wall, flowerbeds, summer camps, explosives made from commonly found household items, calenders, long weekends, Indian summers, toothbrushes---YES I've fantasized about if you had an older and younger sister---speeding tickets, cracked windows, broken vows, prenuptial agreements, odor eaters, crib deaths, Franklin ovens, plungers, suction cup cupid arrows, rest homes, Yoko Onos, stutters, field trips, flat tires, pacts, Indian givers, everlasting gob stoppers, tanning salons, no-tag backs, coloring books, lottery tickets, instead-of-living-together

-maybe-we-should-consider-living-next-door considerations, signatures, contracts, cataracts, orphans, Orpheuses, airports, casinos, autopsies, nervous breakdowns, near misses, ghosts, get out of jail free cards, Monopoly, Risk, IOUs, the fact that you look like a koala bear half the time and you're a little sensitive about it???

Hmmm?

Laputa

Last year a Cuban on the flight over to their hometown told me a story. When Che left Cuba for the last time he changed his identity and radically altered his appearance in order to sneak out to Bolivia. But he had dinner with his family one last time. His wife introduced him to his children as "Raoul" and they didn't recognize him. When dinner was served, out of habit, he sat at his usual place at the head of the table. Instantly one of his small children confronted him and grabbed the chair. "You cannot sit here. My father sits here." So Che politely stood and left it empty while his wife smiled.

I'm pushing thirty this June and it embarrasses me that I don't know more of these kinds of stories. I should.

Whenever I touchdown in Havana I never have a place to stay. That isn't especially specific to Havana actually. I hate reservations. But Havana IS one of the only places I know that rewards you for having no plans and just hustling. All I'd lined up for my first week after leaving home was going to the movies with two Cuban girls, one on a stopover in Toronto, the other in Havana. I'd never gotten around to catching a movie at the Charlie Chaplin theater and I didn't feel like going alone, I wanted a stranger.



The cab dropped me off on the Malecón near the Hotel Nacionale. It was that strange hour between the sun sinking out of view and the street lights turning on. Still warm out as the colors drain and begin smear and stain stuff, in this case the rooftops in old Havana behind me and ahead of me the whole chocolate Christmas calendar of hurricane bruised apartments skirting the edge of the sea. Bike taxis hustled rides while the fisherman worked barefoot and shirtless, smoking unfiltered cigarettes next to a bucket of today's catch pulled in. Some work alone with rum, others in groups with conversation. Jineteros (jockeys---as in, RIDING the tourists) keeping an eye out for an easy wallet while jineteras arch their backs and hiss, "Warr joo frawm?". I prefer their guesses to my honest answer. Kids too busy flirting with each other to mind another gringo looking around for a stall to buy some cigarettes and a juice box of rum with a sipping straw. Lots of people alone walking, turning over decisions made a little easier with the proximity to the sea. Old women with sacks of candy holding out fist fulls of lollipops and bags of popcorn to families sitting or leaning against the seawall near lone musicians with trumpets or guitars. Tourist cruise ships off in the horizon, some warships too. Out beyond the perfect line where the sky and sea kiss, only 90 miles, three days float if you make it, and pay dirt of the whole shitload of Florida relatives. Get lost thinking about anything and some wave might wash over and soak all your baggage to hell. Not that I ever have much. Nobody gives you shit if you wear the same shirt all week if you have to. And everybody likes to swap.

Back in 2000, the first time I saw Cuba, five minutes after arriving I went over to the Habana Libre (which used to be the Hilton until Castro rolled in and set up government headquarters on the top two floors) and asked everybody milling around outside where the "maricon" was, not knowing I was using the vulgar pronoun for queer. Also not knowing that this was the unofficially designated cruising area of town. I do most of my research on the fly. Anyway, after a quick glance at the policeman on the street corner I was ignored. I approached somebody else, "How do I find the maricon please? Can you show me?" This woman was more helpful. I was pointed in the direction of a handful of homosexuals across the street at an ice cream stand and when I seemed confused by her advice someone corrected my vocabulary and walked me around the corner until I could see what I was looking for for myself.

Then it turns into a wet painting like this:


And the girls with price tags offer a little company, whatever you want, but I'm always too shy to go for it. It's too easy to get thinking about the people you've been with where you're just a stepping stone for someone hopefully a better fit. Likewise them for you. Musical chairs was just practice for it and for death's role in things too.

Beginning of November in this place where the seasons tap a shoulder and don't mind if you don't pay attention. Whenever you get lost all you need is the sea to get back on track. I have one of the worst senses of direction on the planet but this is redeemed by the golden rule I discovered of asking only the most attractive local women for directions. It's fun going out of your way to get as lost as possible as the purpose of your day---or life for that matter. Nearly everybody I've ever met I found just asking for directions.




I met her in a hotel lobby but she didn't come up to my room until the second night. Now she was still back in my country while I'd arrived in her hometown. There she was in the lobby dressed up:

"What deed I tell joo. No chemistry."
It was our joke about each other leading up to meeting. But I wasn't sure if she was joking this time. And I knew she could tell.

The human voice is really fucking creepy when you think about it. Usually you don't. But It's not really PART of the human body, it's sorta BETWEEN the human body. Which makes everybody a ventriloquist. Whatever thing possesses the voice sorta CONTROLS the rest of the body. Or it feels like it. Some bodysnatcher-effect.

But her voice was familiar cause I'd talked with her a bunch of hours leading up to this. I was used to her voice, excited and comforted by it. My favorite ingredients with anybody. Used to it singing or falling asleep or laughing or flirting---leaving her movie trailers to my imagination from the still images I'd seen. This is how her mouth moves when she talks. How her hands gesture along with it, fluttering like wild trapped birds over her head as all Cubans use them. I was used to her letters. Everything's a conversation, the SAME conversation really.

That's why even if I get to fuck you it's still gonna be the same argument, guapa. Stop glaring at me. Stop trying to rattle me when you already know I'm nervous. You're gonna force me to unleash many many 4th rate Marlon Brando facial expressions. Don't make me do it Carmen Miranda...

"Look at deez silly face. You're nervous. I can understand. No chemistry and you're sad you came all this way for nothing."
"Did you eat something?"
"Stop making your goofy faces. I'm hungry. You told me to come hungry."
"What are you hungry for?"
"Reebs."
"What the hell is that?"
"Reebs."
"I don't know that word in Spanish."
"It's not Spanish. REEEEBS. Puerca, what you always call me. Barbecue sauce. REEEBS stupido!"
"Ribs?"
"That's what I said."
"Sure you did."

Then leaving the restaurant with her licking her fingers clean, snow under her feet, wandering around the corner and spotting a movie theater. We find our seats and during the credits she sings along with the song in the movie, really belting it out, until a guy down the aisle turns around and tells her to shut up. She freezes stiff. Make or break time. I have enough things to worry about on my own without French Canadian testosterone interference, so I get up out of the seat and approach him. This settles affairs. She starts singing again at operatic volumes. He leaves. I reach for her hand and try for a kiss. Shot down. Wallow a little while until I catch the breeze from her batting her hair straight out of a mexican soap opera. Try again and do better. I love making out at the movies in the dark.

But it's a strange feeling consummating something over the page, on the phone, then in person. Every time you're translating something into a different language... it's this goofy shell game in many many cases.


I recognized this new girl in front of the Yara movie theater in a yellow dress, school books under her arm from the university just down the street. Very sweet, open face. She looked embarrassed but it was because they couldn't show the festival movies instead only some Kevin Costner movie and wondered if I minded. I said I didn't. It turned out it didn't matter anyway. Cubans treat the movies as an interruption on their conversations anyway. They yell over whatever the American movie stars are pretending to be concerned about so we just sat there and talked under the screaming at the screen. Got an ice cream across the street at Coppelia's after the show.

Ferris Wheels vs Roller Coasters

This is an abomination. Push pause immediately.

I can't, Gerry. It's Tecmo Bowl. There's no *pause*. I'll have to call a timeout.

So call a timeout, tabernac!

If you were paying attention you'd know I'm in the middle of making a comeback. I only have one timeout left in the whole game. I have to save it. You're cheating a twelve year old kid.

Save it for what? You're down 28 to nothing in the third quarter against a 70 year old man who has never PLAYED Nintendo before.

My offense has the weapons to come back.

Call a timeout or I shut the game off.

Fine. I called a timeout. WHAT?

Are you listening to me?

Jesus. YES.

Are you aware the San Francisco 49ers have a punter on the payroll?

So?

Do you know what his job description is?

I don't care what his job description is. If I could I'd fire his ass.
We'd be the only team in the NFL with no punter.

His job is to bail you out on fourth downs and assist the gaping holes in your Castro Street defense.

What's Castro Street?

Where all your defensive players spend their nights. Trust me. Tabernac, use your punter once in a while.

My punter's job is to ride the pine and watch Joe Montana hit Jerry Rice for a 95 yard touchdown pass. And then another. And ANOTHER.

You'd still be a touchdown away from my lead.

We'd get more.

Joe Montana can't wipe his ass. You haven't completed a pass the whole game.

You cheat and look at my controller when I call my plays.

Look at my driver's license. I'm legally blind, tabernac! You throw hailmarys every time!

It doesn't mean you have to PICK IT every time.

You run your offense like I run my love life. We have the same offensive coordinator. Where has it gotten us? You're down 28 points and I've been alone for the last 9 years.

I don't punt. Punting is for queers.

Is it, now? Well, well, well---Mr. San Francisco 49ers is a burgeoning homophobe. On top of everything that ought to set your reputation back at least five whole minutes.

I'm always gonna go for it on fourth downs, Gerry. That's how I win.

That's how you LOSE. And what other twelve year old kid do YOU know who needed to borrow seventy-five dollars to payoff their Tecmo Bowl Nintendo debt at school?

He cheated by looking at my controller like YOU do.

YOU CALL THE SAME PLAY EVERY DOWN!

So?

So is this the philosophy you'll use everywhere else in life?

Maybe.

Only the best looking girl?

Uh, YEAH. As if I'm not taking Murphy to Playland this summer. As if I'm not gonna kiss her on the roller coaster.

Roller coaster? You don't kiss a girl on the roller coaster.

Why the hell not?

Because everybody knows you do it on the Ferris wheel.

I hate the Ferris wheel.

You hate the Ferris wheel?

Ferris wheels remind me of chemotherapy.

But they stop at the top, tabernac!

Stop calling me fucking tabernac, Gerry.

They stop at the top! And they wobble and creak and you're up high and she's been waiting for you to kiss her. With roller coasters you're liable to puke on her if you tried to kiss her.

I'm not kissing Murphy thinking about fucken chemo treatments.

Who do you know whose gone through chemo?

Mom forced me to watch "Beaches". And the only thing worse than watching somebody go through chemo is watching Bette Midler turn on the faucets and belt out that "Wind underneath my wings" chemo lesbian incestuous love song bullshit.

And have you ever BEEN on a Ferris wheel?

Fuck no.

But you're quite sure, if you did---

Which I WON'T---

That you couldn't kiss this Murphy---is this Murphy some red head Irish boy?

It's her last name!

I'll take your word for it. So you couldn't kiss this Murphy because in your mind you'd hear Bette Midler singing a chemo lesbian incestuous love song in your head?

Yeah.

But on a roller coaster you see yourself scoring with this Murphy?

She's not THIS Murphy. She's MURPHY. There's only One.

What about Eddie Murphy?

Not even close. If you saw her Gerry you'd get it.

So you see yourself going for it and having her as your first kiss?

Sorta.

Sorta?

I'm nervous.

Really. What happened to Mr. No Punter? Mr. Hail Mary? Mr. Always Goes For It On Fourth Down?

I'm scared to ask her.

You're afraid she cheats? She looks at your controller and knows all your plays?

She knows I like her. I'm pretty sure she does.

What's the problem?

Put it this way---

No, put her as something I understand. Put her as restaurant, Brinny.

What does this Murphy serve at Murphy's?

As a restaurant? What does that mean?

Is it HOW she serves what she serves, or WHAT she serves that makes you scared?

Man...

Why do you look so sad?

Because.

Because what?

If Murphy had a restaurant called Murphy's I don't think anybody could eat there.

Why?

For starters the reputation is too intimidating.

What's her reputation?

She's like the eighth wonder of the world, Gerry.

No she's not. I saw the Eighth Wonder of the World last week on Saturday Night's Main Event fight Hulk Hogan.

Nah, not like Andre the Giant. Like the real wonders. The Sphinx or something. The Pyramids. I dunno. One of those things you can't really do much with besides just look at or something.

What are the waitresses like at Murphy's?

I dunno.

What is the hostess like when you walk through the front door at Murphy's?

I dunno, Gerry. I think she's a virgin, so I guess nobody knows what that stuff is like.

You KNOW she's a virgin?

Sorta. Some guy tried to fool around with her but he told me she was frigid.

What is frigid?

She doesn't put out.

Oh.

So I THINK she's a virgin.

Does it matter to you?

Not really.

Take her to dinner first.

Why?

Do you know why people ask people they're interested in to dinner?

Not really.

Because you can learn a lot about somebody by how they eat.

Yeah, but then if I picked her up I'd have to shake her hand or something in front of her mom. I hate that shit.

Shaking hands is a nice custom.

I hate it.

Do you know how long you need to shake hands for?

No. Did somebody SAY how long you have to?

Yes.

Who?

I don't know.

At least you admit it.

You shake hands with someone until you notice their eye color.

Really?

Yes.

Good, then I don't have to do it. I already know Murphy's eye color. Can we finish the game now?

Okay.

Hawaii Interstate Highway

"I've already told you: the only way to a woman's heart is along the path of torment. I know none other as sure." ---Marquis de Sade

Stop shaking your head. Gimme a chance to explain...

I like stealing stuff. I case every woman who catches my eye trying to see what they're hiding. You can't give your phone number without giving something of yourself. Every little hair on a woman, even the peach fuzz, is a fuse.

I watch some guys staring at their girls like kids staring at a candy store window. Which gets me wondering, along with the girl in most cases, is he making that sweet expression at *her* or to himself in the reflection? So the girl looks over at me and sees the crowbar in my eyes. I can't hide it. Fortunately it's not WHAT you do but WHO you do it with. I find my markets.

But every time it feels the same when it sticks with somebody. I pick the lock and break into their life and instead of trying to steal everything, I end up wanting to move in.

I'm in full-on burglary-mode when all of a sudden I find myself liking the way you crookedly hang that painting, the way your bookshelves lean, where you dogeared pages or underlined stuff, your pajamas, that you're a packrat for every letter ex's sent you, sticker books and photo albums, you kept a lock of your hair from when you were six and now your hair's a different color, you had a street portrait artist embellish your likeness when you were going through an ugly phase and everybody pretended you were that pretty, you were entirely frigid with one boy and put out on the first date with another and you don't know why the difference, you want a dad and your cute little boy at the same time out of a husband---oh yeah---AND the guy you'd risk all that for to cheat with, you want to have your blueprints for the rest of your life approved of, you want your history to be a rumor that YOU spread, you want me to cast my net at you swinging over and over and never get more than half your butterflies, you want to be my private petting zoo, I want a muse who fucks like a whore, you want to be able to hurt me and build me up, you want me to trudge through your sewers and step out onto your penthouse balconies, you want to take your top down in conversation and and have my breeze run through your hair, you want me to contemplate every guy who ever wanted to get into your pants, you want jealousy, you want me to be loyal but only because you're amused that I'm a born serial-cheater, you want our sex life to be a cookie jar (actually that's projection, I admit it), you want to get our plans on wheels, you want somebody with no plans, you want Monopoly on weeknights and Risk on weekends, you want somebody who can fight but also listen, a caveman with a rather daunting reading list, you want every smart person you know to feel castrated next to goofy imaginative things we've come up with, you want me to be fucked-up but fairly lucid, you want relativity here and there but stuff that comparison can't touch other places, you want love letters and suicide notes, you want your melody to feel like a symphony, you want to be my God and have me as your bible at dinner parties, you want me to accept that you have an abiding, unadulterated crush on Adrian Brody despite the fact that both our mothers are Hungarian, you want to be my fire escape---more architecture than utility---and you can still fall in love 10,000 times but it has to be with ME, over and over, like some karma that slums it on spin cycle, and we can be off-key, and every soliloquy can be one long stutter, and why the hell am I inventorying all this shit, oh yeah it's Thanksgiving, so do we have a deal?

Deal.

I got a phone call last week that fucked around with my weekend even though I didn't do much besides reread Cannery Row and some Kafka diary entries and move over some pavement percolating some new stories and talk on the phone to S. It threw a phantom weekend in of what MIGHT have happened. But no dice.

Long distance relationships open like pop-up books, hers is in Manhattan. I like my pop-up book.

"What are you doing this weekend? I'll come out and see you," she said. You cheat on every girl you were ever with hearing a Cuban accent. It puts out over the phone.

But hesitation shuts the whole fucker down.

"You don't sound excited. Is it because of the..."

"Yes, guapa."

"Then I go to Miami."

"I'm sorry."

"Change the subject."

"To what?"

"I have to go."

"That's not changing the subject."

"Jes eet eez."

Click.

Rosetta Stone

In a few weeks, on the anniversary of Camilo Cienfuegos' disappearance back in 1959, all the school kids in Cuba will throw flowers into the sea or, if they're inland, in rivers for him. His plane went down in waters near Havana and nobody ever found the wreckage. Che named his son after him. I nearly got to meet this Camilo Guevara last year as a marine archaeologist friend of mine over there knows him. Didn't pan out. You'd like the original Camilo's face, especially under the huge hat he wore. He was the last man to join the 82 members on the boat that Castro led to kickoff the revolution. They only let him on because he was skinny. His smile just has a way of forgiving you for everything you've ever done. It's everywhere over there. I was thinking about you checking in over here today. I had some wood that I'd left out in the rain that was a little disagreeable in the fireplace. Lighter fluid proved persuasive and the cat came over to keep me company. He has a nifty habit of dancing around every time the wood crackles. After a while he regains his composure and settles down again and reads over my shoulder. Marquez keeps his attention. I had all these little points written on the back of both hands to mention tonight but the rain smeared them. Now I have to wing it. It's weird writing when you talk on the phone everyday. It has this sorta lame perfunctory feeling, like kissing under Mistletoe or posing for a photo. One time an ex told me all my knee-jerk, 3rd rate Brando mirror and camera faces never carried over to real life. She enjoyed this because it meant I'd never know what faces she'd fallen for. That was something I was turning over in the rain this afternoon: is everybody rigged to fall in love with somebody? By *somebody*, obviously I mean YOU. By *everybody*, obviously I mean me. I walked a long way watching clouds as if they were people I knew sleeping. I want a mask of the face of everybody I've ever known. Maybe a few from everybody. The kid mask, grownup, and geezer. I want to mount them on a wall. From the first face to the last. When I was a kid I had this deal with crushes, I always made a pact with myself to see their face as the last thing before I fell asleep. I have a lot of trouble getting used to faces. I figured this practice would help me get over the real dozy numbers so I could at least have a hope in hell of not giving the whole game away every time they asked me for an eraser or what time it was. But it made the problem worse. Too many people grow on me. I look around for neighborhoods I think you might like around here. Ones without perfume. Nothing in this town has any baggage or childhood files except one place, which is all junk halos under humming neon motel signs. But there are a bunch of pockets. This one's close to the park that steals the show when the leaves turn color. That one looks like it's made of LEGO and I'm just showing it to you because someone paid to live there. I lived in this area for a year and if you're high enough up in some apartment all the others look like chocolate Christmas calendars at night when the windows glow in the dark. It's weird trying to pick. There was one neighborhood where the only thing I knew about it was one summer afternoon five years ago I fucked a girl who stole the key to the roof of the building 16 stories up. You had the whole city up there, off one edge of the roof the forest was a doormat and everywhere else the mountains spun in different shades of blue all the way across the milky sky until the after-dinner-mint colored skyline of the city looked like a sandcastle. Everything's glass here. Sunsets catch it occasionally and you get molten smothering over the whole town in a tidal wave of glint. Where else is some pay dirt? A lot of the homes have a weird way of welcoming you with, "Hi, when are you leaving?" Let's avoid those. Traffic lights wink continuously, because this place goes to sleep at 10pm. Power wires and bus lines and telephone polls are sheet music. Logos and insignias all over the place stamps to a shitty love letter or suicide note depending on how you look at capitalism. They all talk about themselves in the third person. Try to keep a straight face. Horoscopes on the bus, revolving door eyed pedestrians, train wrecks of guilty cigarettes in ashtrays, the zoo is still there but it's extinct, my ex worked at that tanning salon across the street... Yeah, but it doesn't matter anyhow. You'll be using my hometown as chaser for Havana.

Unsigned

all these clouds outside my window made a nice bib for an especially sloppy pie eating contest sunrise, all kinds of berries smeared. now it's pigeon shit gray with the shopping carts clanking down the alleys. all the traffic lights winking like betty page.

you read that inscription that i felt a little queasy and naked writing in my chicken scratch two minutes before i saw you, but wrote it anyway so you could find it *later*. maybe when you felt like fishing for it. maybe stumbling on it drowsy before you went to sleep. maybe with stuff ahead of your day---hopefully something nice that you could arch your spine to when you thot about it, like the way your whole body sighed and curled a little when you talked about dancing all over the place.

*LATER* being the key fucking word, natalie.

you shouldn't say certain things to me, you know. when you told me you read that paragraph i sent you the other day out loud to yourself---to get the/my voice right!?---jesus fuck, i wanted to club you on the spot. toss you over a shoulder and find a nice hospitable cave with a cool breeze and a mattress with no sheets or blankets. me as the only alternative smirking heat source. you can't say things like that. not in that little unsure voice that changed when it came out.

especially since you turn me into a pack rat. just sorta wanting to keep a bunch of stuff that i didn't have the guts to try and steal even tho i love stealing. keep your face tucked inside that hood a little bit longer, just because i like the way it looks with only a little crinkled, rain-licked hair against your chin. figure out a way to keep that antenna inside you bent right so the reception stayed perfect between your lips and eyes smiling. just making that sneaky sound in your throat that seems to surprise and tickle-out certain expressions that i can mainline. maybe i just love looking at you. i get to say that without feeling guilty because it's true. if somebody pulled out a stop watch over at benny's way back when, i was there in under a second easy. you don't seem so much painted, as carved. and you have this effect on me.

i get tense sometimes, nervous, and this fucking billiard's triangle comes out of nowhere trying to cram all of me into its ugly shape---so am i allowed to tell you when i got to touch you the morning you left this crazy pool cue cracked every ball so hard inside me, in a thousand directions, all the numbers burned off?

in oliver there are lots of orchards handy, with cherries and apricots and peaches hanging out along the highway eager to be stolen if anyone should happen to be strolling by. there's a river that snakes thro the valley for a few miles and i'm told it's higher and faster than it's been in 40 years and i wonder how many bridges you've been flushed under because that's always been my favorite part. there's a lake, half a mile long, with a raft at one shore shaded by willow trees, big cozy old thing, that you can take out at night that drifts a couple hundred yards into absolute darkness with only the moon drooling on the water and buttering the sky. and there's a big ass mountain with the profile of an indian that takes a couple hours to climb through wild flowers and cactus and the occasional deer nosing around after you hop the fence of the farm beneath it and trespass...

this is a little too long, but then yesterday felt a little too short. your fault on both counts.