One / One
Beachwood Canyon, Los Angeles — 2025
No New Year's texts. Makes sense. What a shit year. Arrests, unease. Death and disease. Awful and shitty. Best to avoid self-pity. Beneath me. Petty. Guilt, fear. Shame.
Rain, rain. Roll-off rain. Run flat. Easy and slick. Thunder. Black jacketed. Lightning. Slackening. A full hood against the rain.
Rain. Fanciness in plain. Coated and covered. Clicking heels in puddles. Stepping in sponge grass to avoid the masses. Sit on my laugh.
It all could have been worse,
of course.
("If I'd had my choice I'd abort.")
Vetoed in utero. Cupidquick cuticles. Dragged down the back of some deeded john. Alchemical. Alert. Black-lunged canaries. Well-paid excorts.
Whitley Heights, Los Angeles — 2025
A dropped line and a held court. A farn's philo and a rigged sport. A reformed tart. Lover's leap. Cleaving. Five diamonds and climbing. Irish and leaving. Cloverly. Luckless. Closing in. Fucked. Hovering. Over it. Moonlit and glowering. The gowerly gulch of some dried widow's dowry. Sati. Cowboys. A strip-mined asteroid. A clusterfucked solenoid. Sourly sought. In the hour of its buying. Distraught and stricken. Collapsing. As all contradictions. Indicating worry's furtherance. Brittle in battle-stance. Hardened and post-mortem. An ocean's exploit. Man's overfishing. A poison well's wishing. Sweet and swishing. Mouthwash in a cavernous abscess. Dilapistroyed. Dated. Faded. Fully fated. In the fashion of failure. And its tailoring. Nailed to error. Reckoned sober. Head-dundered. It's all over. Fratricidal brother. Disfavored excalibur. Clever in caliber. Recalculate the — Police blotter acid. Hands clasped. Banging bangles. Gone-gone-gone in ganglang angles. Hollywood hardened. Hillbilly strangled. Sideways and dangled. An overheard hearse. Dead verse. Dial-up's tone. Tidal and terse. Satcom. Sad clowns. A frown flayed upside dumb. A body floating. Hope's loss. Exhaust. Sucked and fucked and ineluctable. Delicious and wiggling. Alive in the trap. Cognizant. The mouthfeel of merlot dark in the gums. The towering slums. Toppling preposterous. Boisterous boasts of bitches. "Who's hitched now?" Gossiping. Garroted flossing. Throat's thrash. Screamed out. Raw. Take the m out of rumination and a maul to the masonry. All falls. Signature stationery. Libidinous scribbling. In horn's haste a space laid to waste. A big stink made. Discount's dive. Hourly rates.
⤴ Now playing "Space/Time" — forthcoming SCALED ALPS LP 'Let the Alpine Play'
Whitley Heights, Los Angeles — 2025

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