dear people generally not

my temples itch.
LA for a day: July 4th.
then a private jet to South Florida.

writers anonymous is brilliant.
writers paradise is cloaked in rain.
an ocean is much more than an ocean.

I can see the Hollywood sign.
I eat alone at The Saddle Ranch.
tasting time machines with every bite tonight.

sick and good, stoke the fire.
a thirty hour blast.
literature and life, just pages and moments.

from the Sunset Strip.
to South Beach.
I am trying my little heart out to make million bucks writing an all but dead art form.

out of town, out of bounds.
with sand between my toes.
a tuna sandwich between my jaws.

complete with colorful explosions.
and whites roses up our noses.
get decrepit while doing long division life.

guilt is a funny thing.
you can't touch it.
but you can feel it.

glory-bound with sparrow.
at a zinc bar with a humble Harvard grad.
the cosmic tooth, awesome ache, I am a mother fucking gunslinger.