The trees sway like drunkards in the breeze on Burt Sreet. The tale of Thomas A. Miner brings hollow tears to my red cheeks. The roommates are gone to Los Angeles and with girlfriend. The cat sits so slow and surely on the window pane looking outward. Diet Coke and American Spirits fill me like unleaded poisons. Red trees with cherries embrace the light of this California town. What a strange feeling, what a silent mist that passes over me. I dream of a place where noone needs money or owns any part of my life. Helicopters fill my ears with dreadful humming fighting gravity. People with dreams and feet of their own breeze by down the concrete. To stores, to friends, to cars, to the park I imagine they're drawn. Shadows make dalmation patterns on the green and yellowish grasses. What a strange world of colour, form and ideas through these glasses. What an impartial, passionless task putting this pen to this page. Breezes blow on and life passes long past any sort of linear truths. I am the vines that creep up slowly, strangling other upright beasts. I am the one sitting on the balcony listening to bombastic rock 'n' roll. My reflection, to which I am drawn, is a quiet self-portrait of singularity. Is 'beleiving' everything? Are we all so unique? Are we all gods? As the wind picks up force, the drunk trees shake with violence. Ah, to remain drunk on breezes dropping leaves and cherries is sublime. You were right about me, old friend, I am scared and alone. I am scared to be alone with you and scared alone of staying there. Burt Street bursts with screams of Mexican kids and exhaust pipes. Santa Rosa, like me, is a nice place to live; safe and afraid of greatness.

<< | >>