Crooked lake streams through the gigantic sprawl of Los angeles. Sheepishly ingrained in our hearts is the optimism of tomorrow. We can't escape the sharks from below with their grated teeth and their hormonal antics. Breathing in and out with a determination of a scoff-filled sister just waiting to eat punish you. Cripple you with insults that burn no longer than a couple of days which get more and more numbered by the second. He cried and sighed when he lost that job of true conviction. Secret hate brewed in his full fledged brain. Regressing in his shit laced logic. Eager to stitch up that wound-wine won't help, wagers of promise by friends won't help. Sleeping won't help.
In the dead of night, when his thoughts were with him he could only think of her. Her hazel eyes crazed with desire, porcelain milkish skin warming his heart. He made him feel like a dippish crony. Someone who mattered. Her tan back plastered with a tattoo of a small chihuawah. A Chihuawah with an eagle's eye. Oh, how he could stare at that for hours while listening to her drone on about Eddie, her jewish friend from Boyle Heights. Eddie, who had the smarts to go to Princeton but wanted to stay in southern california so he went to USC and majored in psychological economics. The economics of the mind. How we compartmentalize our thoughts and emotions into invisible boxes that won't don't matter all that much. Or some such nonsense. Lets be honest, he wanted to fuck her. But Eddie was gone and you were there. You were always there. Chiming in. Caring. Where did it all go wrong? He can't remember. He must have blacked out all the stupendous arguments with a dark sharpie in his head.
He could only remember her auburn hair, her greenish red lipstick that she put on every time they went to that steakhouse on san vicente. Thank god for the money he made. Touching her curvy shoulder, noticing that pinkish blue mole for the first time. Making fun of it and making her giggle that gargled laugh. So sweet and yet so powerful. That look that she gave you through the mirror before they went out to someplace: you're so lucky Brad Pitt would be jealous of you. Heavy dresses that sold her breasts to onlookers who lusted after her. We were each others line on the wall. How her neck always tasted like Northern California Red Apples. So ripe and poised.
How she made love with force, precision, and passion. All of that being equally enjoyable. How sweat dripped down her back and on her thigh How you rubbed it on your fingers and slurped it up with joy. A total annihilation for the senses. The dirty rough stuff you and her wanted. The rougher the better. She was a minx among delicate cats. Endurably coddling to her manic depressed brother Hugh. Dedicated to the fun of a lancers time. Dangerous and dreamy.
How he etched out the memories of yesteryear. They seemed like yesterday. Crying, holding her hand, in the k-mart. Swearing at her mother. Vicious at her dad as onlookers judged what they thought was a quarrel between a young married couple. Aisle 9. Toy trucks and action figures. Driving recklessly towards Ralph's beverly hills after hitting a thoughtless club. Picking up Peach Schnapps, Chocolate chip ice cream, Orange Juice, and Ketel One Vodka at 12:43 at night. We knew what the rest of the demon like night was going to be like. Anything but dreary. Where did you go? Where did we go as a couple? Did we die emotionally somewhere between sleeping to True Blood and going to jazz concerts. Did my Sylvia Plath routine get too old? Did your burt lancaster impression piss me off that much? I wonder. Oh, how I miss you.
In the dead of night, when his thoughts were with him he could only think of her. Her hazel eyes crazed with desire, porcelain milkish skin warming his heart. He made him feel like a dippish crony. Someone who mattered. Her tan back plastered with a tattoo of a small chihuawah. A Chihuawah with an eagle's eye. Oh, how he could stare at that for hours while listening to her drone on about Eddie, her jewish friend from Boyle Heights. Eddie, who had the smarts to go to Princeton but wanted to stay in southern california so he went to USC and majored in psychological economics. The economics of the mind. How we compartmentalize our thoughts and emotions into invisible boxes that won't don't matter all that much. Or some such nonsense. Lets be honest, he wanted to fuck her. But Eddie was gone and you were there. You were always there. Chiming in. Caring. Where did it all go wrong? He can't remember. He must have blacked out all the stupendous arguments with a dark sharpie in his head.
He could only remember her auburn hair, her greenish red lipstick that she put on every time they went to that steakhouse on san vicente. Thank god for the money he made. Touching her curvy shoulder, noticing that pinkish blue mole for the first time. Making fun of it and making her giggle that gargled laugh. So sweet and yet so powerful. That look that she gave you through the mirror before they went out to someplace: you're so lucky Brad Pitt would be jealous of you. Heavy dresses that sold her breasts to onlookers who lusted after her. We were each others line on the wall. How her neck always tasted like Northern California Red Apples. So ripe and poised.
How she made love with force, precision, and passion. All of that being equally enjoyable. How sweat dripped down her back and on her thigh How you rubbed it on your fingers and slurped it up with joy. A total annihilation for the senses. The dirty rough stuff you and her wanted. The rougher the better. She was a minx among delicate cats. Endurably coddling to her manic depressed brother Hugh. Dedicated to the fun of a lancers time. Dangerous and dreamy.
How he etched out the memories of yesteryear. They seemed like yesterday. Crying, holding her hand, in the k-mart. Swearing at her mother. Vicious at her dad as onlookers judged what they thought was a quarrel between a young married couple. Aisle 9. Toy trucks and action figures. Driving recklessly towards Ralph's beverly hills after hitting a thoughtless club. Picking up Peach Schnapps, Chocolate chip ice cream, Orange Juice, and Ketel One Vodka at 12:43 at night. We knew what the rest of the demon like night was going to be like. Anything but dreary. Where did you go? Where did we go as a couple? Did we die emotionally somewhere between sleeping to True Blood and going to jazz concerts. Did my Sylvia Plath routine get too old? Did your burt lancaster impression piss me off that much? I wonder. Oh, how I miss you.