The Sound of the Breeze

Shoe on the highway. Just one. A kid’s shoe. Where did it come from?
There’s a red stain. But that could be from paint. Right?
Like: a kid is tagging a wall. The cops come. The kid takes off.
His shoe flies away. The shoe he dripped red spray paint on.
Does he get away? Yes, because this is not a sad story,
and the cops would have stopped and picked up his shoe
if they’d caught him. Right?

There was a restaurant on the beach. A beautiful beach.
The tables plopped right down in the sand, the tide almost
licking our toes. The fish was pulled right out of that ocean,
put on plates and served to us fresh. Candles flickered, the stars
mirrored them. It was the most romantic place I’ve ever been.
I told her I loved her. She yelled at me for talking too loud.

There’s a crow on the telephone wire. Smart motherfucker.
Crows can figure out incredible things. Like how to crack a nut,
and how to get inserted into this story. It looks at me with those
smug eyes. This crow knows how intelligent it is. More importantly,
it knows how stupid I am: that I don’t look very far past
my telephone wire for inspiration. Smart motherfucker.


We were walking through a field of flowers. This was in Montana.
I was 20. She was 19. She had freckles and I had a weird
sense of humor. We were on a road trip from Los Angeles
all the way to Boston. There was a river somewhere. We could
hear it, gurgling in the distance. Somehow, although we hiked
for more than an hour, we never found it. Now, I’m almost 40,
when I think of this story I don’t think about her freckles,
I think about the sound we heard, the sound of the river,
and I think it was actually the sound of the breeze.

I’m cutting pineapple into little chunks — you know what they say
about pineapple. And if you do, then you probably already went there.
If you know what they say about pineapple, your mind goes a million
different places. Actually, maybe just one place. A dirty, sweet place.


There’s a long line of people waiting on the sidewalk. I ask them what
they’re doing. They’re lined up in chairs and sleeping bags.  There’s a new sneaker coming out in the morning. Limited Edition. This is the only
place in the country you can buy it. The only place in the entire world.
Not everybody will get a chance to buy it. One guy shows me a picture
of the sneaker. It costs 300 dollars. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.
I tell him good luck and walk away. I don’t understand. It’s so ugly.
This makes me feel very alone.

She tells me, “call me Sleeping Beauty.” But I’ve never
seen her sleep. I don’t think she does. It’s 3 in the morning.
She’s now telling me about the time she accidentally shoplifted.
She tried on a hat and walked out, forgetting it was there.
It’s not a bad story, there are humorous bits, it’s just not a 3am story.

I saw a falling star and instead of thinking about the Universe
and its overwhelming unfathomable beauty — the whole time/space
thing — I thought: ‘how unfortunate I didn’t capture it with my phone.
I missed out on all those Instagram Likes.’ A second or two went by.
‘What does this say about me?’ I thought next.  And then: ‘I can turn
this series of thoughts into a blog post?’ You know: how we exploit our experiences for fleeting validation from those we barely know, and we’re
never happy with the results; so like addicts, we throw more meaningless
wood on a pointless fire that is burning us, destroying us, slowly from the
inside on out. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. I can’t escape it either, despite being aware of it. Like a three-time junky with the needle plunging
into his arm. Follow me


I’m alive and breathing. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.


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