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I wonder if I will die? Maybe I will just disintegrate into little pieces or just blow up into a ball of smoke? Or maybe the lack of drainage will actually feel good. I will let you all know. I will hit the grocery store tomorrow.
Saturday, October 25, 2008. Mandarin orange under the overpass. Parking meters with broken necks. Silk blossoms on the dessicated truck. Palm sapling push in the space between the cracks. Broken freeways wind through the wastelands. Past the hovels, slaves and the mansions. Men like mules tied up to chariots. Warlords with cruel whips in their hands. Flocks of parrots chatter in the fan palms. Dwarfed below the blue sky above us. Clean air, live oak take world back.
This Bed Is Not A Bed. The Crown of the San Gabriels. I Burned Down Your House. Wednesday, May 28, 2008. When I get off work I want to drive my car. Through the retaining wall on the 57 North. And on the other side I swear I will find. Are a dark shape overhead. And in the morning I hope I wake up dead. Drink my coffee and get out on the freeway. The other day I saw a dove cross my path. Dodge a semi in the Brea.
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