(Note: While living in Southern California I fell for that tired cliche “I miss the seasons of New England” I would often write little blurbs about the seasons. As with all photos on this blog, I took them.)

“Spring”

I stepped out on the porch with a mouth full of beaches, and a head full of air and water. I made my way down the stairs. The ground felt a tad bit different, the soil was hard, yet it was early spring. I wonder sometimes where these moments of clarity come from. I wondered out loud, but the folks around me didn’t get it. They kick dirt around me, and make certain noises that one doesn’t normally hear. Stabbing motion to my back, yet I don’t even know you. What’s with that anyway? If I had had my real, true escape vehicles, my guitar, my typewriter, I would have created something. Instead, I destroyed. I turned myself into a baby boy. No diaper can hold the crap that comes out of me unfortunately.

“Summer”

I just got in from a day of pinball and coffee. I love the old video games and the pinball machines. I sneak around and spend a quarter here, spend a quarter there. I don’t win no gifts for girls. I ain’t carryin’ around no stinking big stuffed animals. I’m playing, it’s just me. ice cream soda and little kids biting at my ankles with their screams and fangs. I haven’t been down the road in a long time. I haven’t taken this route in so long. I like this route here. I like how this winds around and get’s me to where I think I need to be. Poetry and horrible letters are no longer needed, poetry and flowers and jackets across puddles. Karaoke on Friday night get’s canceled for a random trip to the moon. John Holmes and every teenage weed dealer I’ve ever known driving a station wagon to the ocean for conversation about ecstasy and Mick Jagger lips. Rug burn from sitting on the floor statuesque for far too long through scary movies and rock videos. Park the car by the side of the road, park it across the street so no one sees us. They all start rumors, they all fill themselves with lies about the moon and lies about the way my car runs. The motor runs great, it needs a tune up, it needs to take different drives, silently through beaches and neon lit strips of Elvis Presley videos. Like a man not even with himself anymore. Like a ninja. Like someone in the deep blue sea swimming. I don’t know, sort of like if you took one part reality and one part whatever you feel you need to think you would sort of feel this like this.

“Autumn”

The streets of downtown are covered with sausage wrappers and dried up footsteps. Footsteps soaked in whiskey and bad breath from the night before. Not deep footprints, as the people walking were weak. Looking for some sort of escape from the norm. They wanted a Sunday afternoon of headaches and vomit. They wanted to miss the snow I saw at seven this morning. They wanted to miss the cool brisk air this morning I felt standing on the porch watching the beauty of autumn with bloodless eyeballs. Like a shot in the arm the autumn is. It’s like a wake up call. All the fools come out to celebrate something they don’t really understand in the first place. Maybe catch a glimpse of a woman flying around on a broom or something cool like that. Maybe the front bumper of my car will catch their khakis. Maybe their tan khakis will be stained with blood by the end of the week. Maybe their stomachs will have to be pumped. Maybe this afternoon’s melancholy mood will force them all to see the beauty of a clear eyeball on a Sunday morning. The sky looks so great in the morning when your head is on straight, and there is not a drop of blood in your eyes. Your teeth are clean. The autumn feels good to me right now, cold and sort of lonely. Content. This sort of calm confidence one gets from time to time. This sort of feeling that comes around once a year. You know it. The unknown. Fear of the unknown. What’s going to happen to me this winter? You ask yourself that every year around this time. It’s always a different answer for everyone though.

“Winter”

(the heat in that car would be up so high our wet crunchy salt covered shoes would turn into little ovens covering our feet. Filthy floor mats in my car covered in little puddles with ice cubes in them like little spilled mixed drinks. Remember how many times I had my heart and brain destroyed by whatever haircut in a nice pair of shoes I was carting around New England staring at bare trees and salty sidewalks. Out here in sunny California, we don’t wear shoes in the car man and we say shit like “it’s all good man, don’t worry about it”)

 

 

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