At the core of things we are just clusters of atoms… inside of which are clusters of electrons and neutrons, and inside that some other kind of matter, who knows; but it doesn’t matter because most of my clusters are just like yours. We are practically identical on the inside. Underneath the nude flesh it’s the same wiring. Everybody. Farts.
It’s a strange, cloudy day. The sunset is purple, painted with a soft brush.
A deep slug of Stella Artois proves to me that some things do go down easy. The forty dollars I lost on the horses before the Flaming Lips Show taught me some things don’t. I’m starting to sound like a beer commercial now. The night sky is bundling up its dark coats. The cool orange and purple hues slipping away.
The nightingales begin singing to the stars. The rare one or two poking through cloud and haze.
Interference from satellites interrupted our phone call. There was nothing left to say anyway. It’s up in space now. The distances are much shorter but closeness much rarer these days. How is it that that happens? Is life some ironic hipster joke? Or maybe I’m the ironic hipster joke… who knows?
They let the horses out of the gate. We watched them go, dirt flying everywhere, your dress blowing gently.
With your three worst planets aligned, what are you going to wear to the Going Away ball? My fingers explore your Martian body like tiny rovers. The last push, the great dive, came and I sat next to the ocean, looking at sea glass. All that’s left behind is dust and archeologists’ lust. Fossils of promises.
Of all the emotions you bottle up, is there any worth writing a song about?
Unroll the tarp over the pool to keep it warm. There is a lemon tree in the back for your Coronas. Watch this cannonball. The sun is high and gracious with its rays. The lawn is made of artificial grass but otherwise it’s your American dream unfurled. Would you like a bacon burger?
The lights go on for last call. You look around, sizing the crowd for broken dreams.
Put on your sunglasses. The light is bright. We orbit strange planets, suffocate on too much oxygen. If you came home with me tonight I’d tell you all about my life. The way the carousel goes around in circles and the cotton candy tastes extra sticky. We put clown noses on and dance to the music coming out of the speakers by the beach. Are you ready to try on your new, blue tap shoes?
The ships bob up and down next to the wharf, the fishermen reach for the lines, the birds circle.
Come aboard my yacht. Let’s both delude each other. The seas are calm. We’ll sail smoothly. I breath in tiny particles of the city, even out by Catalina Island. All I taste is Los Angeles; it tastes like hamburger wrapper. The currents bring a million jellyfish to shore, invading my Normandy.
A cucumber in your ice water makes you feel better for five seconds. Then it sets in.
I slept another night away to awake to the pulsing feeling that all is not lost. There is still so much to reach for, to grab. It’s Saturday and people’s junk is piled in front of their places for sale. The beaches are jammed and the Dodgers are in first place. We worship the sun in this town and Ra is good to us.
If all it takes is the flip of the switch, why don’t they make more switches?