san diego: part 1

You end the evening,
on the bed next to a bed, same shape, form, comfort, fibers.
Before you, the MacBook, remote, iPhone.
To the right, dog.

You end the evening,
in a place next to a place, different shape, form, comfort, fibers.
Before you, newness.
What's left? Nothing to lose.

You end the evening,
in the shape of the form of cellular fibers
spinning comfort,
ankle deep in sand,
salt water footing,
the dog,
your brain in idyllic measures,
unceasing stampede.

On the hotel television: So You Think You Can Dance?

This is the kids believing dance, now. Music video-ready microwavable moves. Theatrics. Drama! One barely remembers when Steve Paxton. Or Anna Halprin. Centaurs, myth-making figurines turning dust in the document attic, pre-primetime. Without a snowflake gobo and star drop, how can it be dance?

You end the evening,
in another place, this place as other.
How here?

You trace backwards baseball cap, wind-driven car waving hand out the window, flick the smoke on Route 5, the speed demon, Red Bull fuel.

Route 5
The pretzels and Diet Pepsi bloat.

Road peels back to foliage that isn't trying as hard as the foliage in LA.

Valerie Solanas Beach, the cult of personality. Houses, smaller, brick and tan. What houses lack in girth is made up at the pump which takes. Houses line the highway, red pepper flakes. Ocean pressing in and out of view, presenting the San Diego city limit. Inland pools of water suggest clamming and green flies. Do they clam here? They do in New Jersey.

Route 5 drives into the sky.
Tori Amos, again.
Sea World Drive. Isn't that where they...?
Prescription fortress, a hospital breaking through the seams.

The church! Is all beauty, seething?

Pretzel film on teeth. The highway is a beach.

Wizard of Oz lady with the red sequin lips brings forth the binoculars to suggest you exit before the trapping of the moving forward.

Anxiety rides shotgun. Just say hello. Hello, anxiety! Anxiety falls, naps. Rogue cars on sand put her into a trance, and at once, she's helpless.

Good morning, dog beach. Breath take the scene of surf/sky. Do I need to take up surfing? What are the terms?

At the Tiki cabana drive-thru, a young lady with an accent walks up to the car and brings me almond milk. She returns to the hut.

TRIGGER WARNING: Realizations

"Kid, this is not a puppy, it's a grown ass woman."

Where are the beach queens? The ladyboys? The fag delis? Where are the boys who look aggressively? Here, the glance are too quick to catch, like the waves. The surfers are brown with corn hair, and parallel dow rods at the base of their backs. Beach rats.

Boy men in green camo stand out like cranes on bay rocks, against the blue ecru. Cooking hot dogs in hotel microwaves, H&M lovers, the hotels are airports, where they wait for instructions in the war limbo.