March 24th, 2004
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Hairshirt
It’s hard being away from someone you care about. A hundred years ago this wasn’t so much of a problem, it was more difficult to move around. Most people were born, lived and died in the same place. Now that it’s incredibly easy, I seem to change locations every one or two years. Friends and lovers, a thousand unspoken promises, clouded by timezones and local news.
I’m in the second deck of the six am from San Francisco and my mind is a sorted mess addled by the constant vibrating of steel and plastic and fifty miles an hour. My morning is a haze of parking lots, piano solos and freeway off ramps, a vacant lot with gravel and scattered club flyers, wrinkled glass rings and crab grass.
Moan, moan, moan you beautiful morning. My skin is tender with heavy eyes and whiskey mouth. I danced with you past midnight, and softened to feel the grace in your fingers. Roll on Bayshore, carry me San Bruno. My cheek is pressed against smoky denim, and their sleepless adoration still in my eyes. Yellow houses and thistled brush, scrape but don’t pull away the half-felt sigh in my heart. Poor California, why does your atmosphere only build in the past?
Millbrae, whoa; BART goes to SFC. A heaving heavy of jazz, paper, popcorn and cigarettes tumble through my ears. Burlingame wakes up slowly, Brothers Deli & Juice. The Daily Planet, SUVs, and creeks, why was I a cat on that garage shelf? Mystery, sweet water, and styrofoam cups, left by lip balm kisses. Goodbye Mike Harvey Honda. Will your wife stand looking after you in the doorway?
Tree-lined streets in Palo Alto, a southern boy named Dom and my gazings at a taqueria La Cumbre. Sigh, San Mateo, must you stay behind? Forever his name will be regret. Volvo repair and little league fields, El Camino dances by Hillsdale and terraced mountains. A northern California suburbian dream and day breaks, is it adolescence or adulthood sitting with me breathing the scents of carpet cleaner and the Radisson, linoleum and Pep Boys?
Ikebana wraps around me like a worn glove, and I’m rocked by gentle arms. Suddenly I think of another city, and find myself holding my breath. Two tracks, the bicycle capital of the northwest. Concrete slabs, bridge trolls and five twenty. Sitting in a wild grass field with barefeet in cold. It tingles in my pores like a skin cream, this sleeping bag, damp dew life. Can I capture moments in a single frame, and blur the edges with my fingers?
