Light. In California. In August.

There were solar flares and a mad burst of energy on the scene, earth twenty eleven. I had to double up on the two for three at the seven eleven, just to keep up with it all. Our two pair eyes widened in synch when we saw the giant rice krispy bar behind the counter we could not afford. We both laughed. Stocked up on throwback dew and the sugar that makes high fructose corn syrup less appealing than sucking down household glue. Not the best effort toward a healthy dinner. True.

Throwback sounds so good. Old logos the older folk may remember for a moment with interest. So quick you missed it like the shooting star tails across the way. The milky way. The one. The only verse, a song across the galaxy soars and falls back and is absorbed. Stardust and sparks trail the muffler of the Cadillac suspended above the pavement all the way to Reno, to Vegas, to dusty lands concealing gypsy caravans of doomsday cults and circus families. Circuit cities dot the nights. Canadian geese take flight.

Throwback. Back to something better. When sugar was sugar. When leather was leather. Turtle necks rising from woolen sweaters of ivy league lovers in a weave of arms and legs at the home opener. Rum and cider and foliage. Blush colors the colorless cheeks. Smiles color the faces of the love they have. the love they still seek.

Damn the sucralose got me crazy. The splenda i dont know. The raw sugar from the caribbean cane grow. This fructose dose of toxic level fruit juice ten percent glucose, shit! Has us half zombie, hybrid diabetics on the verge of comatose. Polyester rubs us wrong on our back sides while we sip out of plastic straws jutting out from plastic cups in icy reservoirs like pre-nups typed up from big sky law firm leatherbacks and souped up cars carrying engines once reserved only for trucks. Big big big bucks to sap the feeling out of hydrated homosapiens who once were wet young wild saplings, they were, now reduced to dry firewood status fallen to the floor of the city forest. Poor babies! Poor them…. poor us.

Poverty comes in many forms. Today i am homeless. I sleep in. She kisses me goodbye. Straight to the clinic and back in a few. Perry Mason will pass the time for you, boo.

Poverty comes in many forms. Today we are homeless. We sleep our way into waking. He hugs me tight and goodbye. I let my breath fall out of my chest in a long sigh that reduces me to the clear outline of lungs you can trace with me to a point. A rib. A path to somewhere, even if its nowhere. I can reside right there, on that path that comes to a clear dead end. Hell! its a path when paths are gone south. Hard to find. Rare to see. And hardly remembered, the pioneers who forged the paths that got us right here where we reside.

A homeless migration of alien species flocks in the shadows of the fallen sun. The vespers like the embers of the dry fire wood of broken spirits and bodies, dehydrated and clearly about to be burned by the sun as she flares up, swells, and churns her medicinal heat out upon us with great heaving and sobbing of photoflash visuals.

To really make our way through this heat. By our teeth. Whitened with bleach to flash back a response. By our smiles and our effort. Or we dont have a chance. By our buckets and buckets of blessed cool waters. Thrown back upon shoulders then down into a stream. To the small of our backs.

We ,must carry on through this. All the way to rivulets punished. Meeting deserts of sand. The dry puff of powder encircles our lands. Little rivulets left of what once came before. Shall drip off the smalls of our back to clear hopelessness.

Then watch. Watch the children, holy madness! They crawl up just behind us and catch the drops falling. Then we smile so wide a valley opens up. A shade tree. Fertile soil. Some water beneath oil.

The rivers. We find them. By the cool light. In august. They found us for sure. Our children heroic. Our children endure.

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