we watched westerns

people struggling
people gettin' angry gettin' loud
everything burnin' in the sun spell
people in the city park
wading into the fountains
oblivious

people gettin' high
people gettin' drunk
staring at the sky
hittin' a goldmine
hittin' a vein
barely gettin' by

people bein' offensive
mistakin' themselves 4 radicals
people bein' abusive
mistakin' themselves
for anarchists

everyone wants a headline
even a recluse

sometimes
late at night
other times
middle of the day

sometimes
bottom of the first
tagged by heat
hash brown
eyeballs yellow

ready to steal
flagged
indiscreet

sunny side staring
up from the
plate

after a spell
feelin' so done with it all
we watched
westerns

crisp like apples like childhood

i still like apples when they are crisp and cool and fresh, i like biting into them and the taste, it seems unlike life, which is a drag across the cold and hard face of a clock... when i catch an heirloom kinda apple in the palm of my hand it always fits, perfect like a baseball but better cause it's unprocessed, more like childhood when the skin needs no astringent and all the body is firm and thoughts are clear and waking up is fresh and new and motivation is natural and intention pure    - K

Journal #04.15.15

The earth still looks a healthy shade of blue from space. My depression, a healthy blue. All it does is stop me from inane exercises like calculating my taxes. You cannot take nothing from nothing much, without getting much in return. A healthy blue. Meaning I could tap into the wind chimes in the dead of night when even the air begins to shift about, uncomfortably. The grey cat sits like a statue, staring effortlessly at nothing. This town will go nowhere, slow. This is what I like about it. The city of trees. There is only one known city to have so many trees. Paris. How delicious to have both cities in the same breath. What a wealthy contrast. Sacramento is but a small production among the musings of an absinthe drinker in Paris. And I but an understudy to the lead.

KatYa's chemex Peruvian roast

I saw an old friend. We met at a diner for breakfast. It has been about a decade. His beard is turning silver in places. Looks distinguished. All I could do was smile. What memories we conjured together, from Mississippi to Chicago to New Hampshire to Ohio and back. The young and the reckless. He told me how he decided I had gone crazy, when we talked a few years ago. We laughed. I almost laughed myself under the table. I believe listening to the Reds broadcasts in Cincinatti kept him sane all these years. Nothing like my rosy blues. I wished him safe travels down to Santa Cruz, and gave him a copy of my novella in exchange for three albums he cut on CD. Oso Negro. Not sure who got a better deal. Probably both of us. I saw Pete Rose sliding headfirst into second base, without regard to anyone or anything, just pure fire ripping cherry red into royal blues. Fuckin-A! righteous!

Royal-cherry-Blue.