Desert Trip

The moments are slow when daylight rules and regulates with its majestic restraint and royal logic but

They were driving between canyons and she thought the sky was hers

Imagined she was immortal

Dreamed she had him once

Held a piece of his existence closely, secretly

After traffic had dulled the senses she found her body blissfully floating in a courtyard pool in the middle of the desert while her heart sank to the bottom like lead and when he reached for her hand there was a terrible haze of fragmentation

And she thought

If only this was the expected collapse into a high-density oblivion like before stars explode, a symphony of destruction, and I would still have you and you me and I could catch your scattered pieces of celestial ash in cupped palms grateful that you have been constant through my graceless passage into years

 

 

Irvine II

she was walking and the paper bag was ready to tear out of her hand from the weight of the hard rain and daydreaming she absorbed the whole cosmos of the winter day into the folds of her brain, streams of hot hatred searing through sulci and gyri until she walked through the double doors of home

found her place before her computer and received communications in cold flashes from an old high school friend who had killed over 50 people in Iraq. because of the lack of tone she could not tell if he was bragging or repenting but she suspected he enjoyed it and thought of his nondescript, beady eyes, slightly pock-marked face, slender frame, easy demeanor, as she knew him before, and shuddered until she closed the laptop lid and infused into a quiet suburban memory.

she had stars and moons in her pocket and a dull tomorrow which promised to lose itself in a mad Los Angeles rush, broken light slipping through cracks of graceless nights, vanishing with feckless abandon and levity into the thinnest dust on its final course

and he had dead bodies rotting eye sockets and a putrid childhood left in a foreign land.

Bitter Heaven

There was the distinct morbidity of childhood, then before she knew it, she was knocking on heaven’s door with a baseball bat in one hand a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other. How nice that you believe in an afterlife and will have a warm home basking in the glow of god waiting for you when I continue to be lost, burnt, stubborn, clinging to vacuous resolve, stale romances trailing close behind. The scent of the night before is still in her hair and the beautiful Greek god saw her cynicism running down the length of the closet mirror. She was the most reluctant witness to the pieces of the day: cheap guitars, fake aspirations, imaginary men.

Here she thought she would find his closeness, everlasting regression, and sweetest harmony written in stardust by the purveyor of perceived eternity but he was not there, and in his place was only a fanatic disintegration.

She had ended gracelessly in an anti-climactic fade, swimming in her own ashes so she had no choice but to welcome futility. She hypothesized that sleep is parallel to death.