Actually it was the Sutter Buttes.
And it was like eating a turkey leg at an opera,
if the opera was a ghosttown, and a ghosttown were your eyes.
Shotguns and revolvers. A zither playing Gasoline and Rye.
“Yeah, yeah, get it in there” or other things heard at Denny’s:
“I smelt that too but thought it rude to quit eating.”
It’s a windy day in the old apartment. Avocado anyone?
Because it’s California—and they bleed—we mash and pulp them.
People in California take off, light as helicopters.
But it’s nothing to be proud of: the head does things, dry things.
Reaching around the head of things, dry things,
and then a flock of cold nights, the tick of landing maple helicopters,
the temperature falling like breadcrumbs, some of them
pelting the dog. An honest mistake; it could have happened to anyone.
Somebody’s always dying and someone’s always fucking eating.
The sloppy wet sound of honey in the mouth. At Denny’s,
the staff lets you cup-ass while you look them in the eyes,
and you’d rather ram their heads. And you’d rather cut than operate.
If you have to have an institution grovel, it might as well be the biggest.
