War on Everything. An all inclusive event…
A comfortably cold novelist in the 1980s drinking coffee and doing small lines of cocaine in the evenings with her white wine.
Tan square cars and how dusty hair looked. The faded view that leads me to rub my eyes thinking they are blurry from tiredness and lack of sleep for the floor is no place to hole up and the carpet makes poor insulation. Reefer on the rise and booze on the decline, no one eats fondue anymore, and plastic ferns went out when they closed down that denal office slinging yacks from the back door, dental quality. Warmer in the summer and the inside of the car smelled like old cigarettes and it was comforting. and there goes the chills when the guitar is fickle in its sound and i skipjump into motion and smoke trails behind as i run into the desert buried up to my neck in warm sand, lizards and snakes crawling and making their way past, some stopping on my head to rest and lick my eye, some biting my cheek and others wrapping around my chin, crushing my lower jaw and breaking it off and there like a discovery of a cadaver in a thrilling movie in ‘92 i was skull exposed flesh begone wilderness corpse in the fun in the sun arizona desert, adjacent to new mexico, the gateway to texas, which is just the layer of fat covering the tiny genitals of southern america. where we gather seashells for our bathroom potpourri and the end of something and the beginning of something else splintered and something liek being in the bathroom as a child and the setting of hometown growing up is sacred and raped away by something of a modern jolt like yea of course you was a part of it the whole time and you thought youd be able to let it slip on by while you walked around the hills and camped around oak trees and shunned the gang who came to find you and bring you back to town, and i just wanted to stay there a bit longer and play and smoke some and walk around and try to think of things that i didnt think of before or places and notions and feelings that are just a picture in my head with a connection of some emotion that isnt anything this or that, but just is and is pleasing and good old SF ocean in the early ninties and the fields of northern CA where i make my way down the hills and back up and all around making it more and more comfortable to rest in my nest of leaves and time. Clover valley, prehistoric, and they want to make it an apartment complex. the whole fucking town and its history destroyed by hemorrhoids coming from knows fuck where and planting diseased and evil foot and claw into my pure virgin land and oh hey now theres a parking lot, and theres another one, oh an processed food shacks, and thrid world cloth outlet, and shoddy, shitty, sad, machine sheep garbage depressing shit to ever disgrace my face and place and i cry in traffic. Its solid walls of waste and cars and bags and peoples sanity and everything else sthats pure, all fallen into the muck by now and the wreckage is enough to start tours walking through, now far enough along to look back like it was some other time and place.
