Field Notes - one night late november 2009

Overturned bottles of beer litter the beach

The blood soaked grass is a picture of rainbows

Ash on the plastic table or on the concrete sidewalk, next to the bench

Sliver turn for the fingers that clamp down and keep it tight. Moving – glass bubbles – ash – rotten stone.

White boy on the concrete steps. I pass a Mexican selling oranges on the corner, as I drive by. What does he do at night?

Taking pictures of sprinklers why are they on at night? Water drains down over the sidewalk it makes me think of blood.

Ciggy makes me want to go home but what is there. I can’t quite see it in this state. I know what I need but right now it is 2 late.

Scratches in the plastic table: An accumulation of lines.

I hear a creak and a ping. Cars along 101 in the distance. A chair next to the window outside. What is trip going to give me? Another escape. What am I escaping from?

Keep going up the stairs to the time when I have to go home (I am not alone there) I am alone here with my ash and bubbles.

A new white page and the orange glow of burning paper lights up my thoughts. All alone here in my plastic table surrounded by rotten posts and amateur thoughts. Trying to end it all.

Damp pants in the desert. I fart remnants of life I am part of the ultraviolence of simple life forms. that does not jive with my easy life style. So I drink alone. I am friends with these words. I am searching but stuck within the nounds of my own limits.

Bubbles on the rim of my bottle the observers above me lock their doors. The lights are still on for me. Time is broken as I take a sip of my beer and think.

Still rising. the blinds are half open to an empty apartment. The walls settle with a creek and a ping. Singular holes in the wooden doors there are beings just like me behind there why are they not here with me trying to answer these same questions. I go back home and just be drunk and feel sick tomorrow.

Split the shell and blow smoke up in the air. There are others like me out there. We all breathe in and out and wonder what everyone else is doing.

I sit at the railing or in the plastic lawn chair listening to the sound of cars, music and my own words.

Spit hangs off my tongue as it makes it way to the floor. There is a lighter with an eroded sticker next to me.

I have the choice to be alone with my thoughts or be alive with my actions.