i wish you'd write me a song

The night stunk.

So I stage a void. Immersed in a sea of heads, sweat, and strands of hair sticking to damp arms. Only you and the surgeon, the general’s warning. And the drummers girlfriend O.D.’s falling to the floor, the show goes on, they pick her up to carry her out while the ambulances scream backwards down alley streets, such an ugly ugly petroleum fed city. She is strapped and carted away with damp clothes. The mother’s nightmare – a phone call at 2 a.m. to pick your daughter up from the hospital. The sirens fade as the crowd goes back to the bar for more drinking. And she decides to never see him again. Maybe even plot his murder.

Deep red blood - drip through the tube and maybe a drop or two from the hole in the arm where the needle is taped. And electric shock, they hold you down. “Bite this,” they hold you down. = Stupid decisions lead to ill treatment. They hold you down. The shock. You hold yourself back.

Candy stores, M & M’s, 1980’s horror stories of back rooms and young boys being taken in by homosexual men, for alcohol, for a place to lay their head. Wake up next to an ashtray of crushed butts and stolen hopes.

You’re so beautiful.

The waves wash ashore; archaic bodies of rusting steel automobiles buried beneath the sand. Their arched frames rise above the surface, broken door hinges and missing glass, the crustaceans building nests alongside the rust bubbles breaking off. The waves foam in the summer, warm frothy foam like beer. You drank yourself to sleep on the breaker, awoke chilled and stupid. Thought you were getting away. Only thirty miles back. That Hollywood drone buzzing around you; that childlike fascination and discouragement. A small junkyard sinking into the sand beneath the sea; left sixty years; rubber tires a yard away. As the tide drops, we see you.

Black and white reels of smoking guns and fading beauties. They pour in one by one. On the bus, in costume; the tension rises. Listen to the rhythm; it swarms you, the roar of steel wheels upon the tracks. The abandoned neighbors house breaking away slat by slat - paint peeling and weeds growing. The screech and hum of ocean pounding the sea wall. Dark nights and sea gulls. Seedy bars and solace; at the corner bar we sit at the back table, drink soda, smoke cigarettes; almost made you my background guitarist, hovering over my shoulder. Like a lover, like a father, like the friend who carries you to the car drunk from the party to ensure no gang rape happens. To ensure they aren’t waiting outside the bathroom door while you vomit, the flush, the swirl, they wait for the click of the lock. It grows silent as they listen...

Over coffee. 2 a.m. that hotel—

Don’t say a fuckin’ word. Cunt. Whore. Never breathe a word of this. I know where you live. Druggie. Drunk. Stupid bitch. This pillow will keep you quiet, this sock, this bundle, this sheet I wrap you in.

3 a.m. - that hotel a fright. We met at the diner; you took me to a movie. A teacher you said; in your apartment I fell asleep on the couch. Handsome; tall and romantic.

Years later, I still think of you, of that Hollywood motel of junkie neighbors. Wish I could return to the theatre, to the diner. I look it up online, try to remember the bay windows and neon sign, the tables and condiments - to find you.

And forget it means nothing.

Nothing.