ink, a drug

if you can picture dewy roman candles, high, bursting over an autumn, ah, picnic, you can picture, soft, hmm, san francisco with its alien fog that creeps over north beach and settles over the embarcadero, and the great epochs of grey bedsheets blowing through the windows of countless hills.

and when the bus stops on the corner of market and haight, a strange spectre, doomed, lumbers off. dressed in overalls, a bandana holding back the allover hair, and the beard, too. it's danny, danny, the hero of the books i've read and haven't read (baudelaire's poems), the one marked for death as if in a sinister fable, or a serpentine conspiracy of this altogether neurotic, junky true life story.

it had been almost a year since i visited danny and his girl, emma. danny cleaning toilets and writing bad poetry, plans for movies, scripts, drunk, emma making money and devoted, hum. visiting, it was a wild bash of tea, puff, walks, exploring the intricate, distinct neighborhoods, plans, danny talking about the ande mountains, just back from seattle, not enough city, a girl in the bar with a bandana in her hand, twirling it, down, eyes fell, a hint of tears that dropped to her heart, a sweet trance, as she stood up wanly, smiled forgivingly, is it goodbye?

so, we were on the phone, almost a year later.

"i get dirty looks from the hipsters on the bus every goddamn day, me in my overalls, jeans not tight enough (marked)."

"give them a scowl."

"...should i growl...?"

"absolutely."

"i'm tired of this city, poseurs, and expensive, and... i think we're going to move to vermont."

me filled with glee at this news, as i've missed good friends who've moved away, and our old fishing trips, and perfect talks of wilder and crazier plans.

"really? when?"

"in a few weeks."

"you might be back in time. i'm throwing a party, middle of march. show up unexpectedly. incite things."

"it's what i do."

"yeah, man. well, i'm tired. time to remedy that."

"alright."

"alright."

and then there was the morning

when the poplars and birch trees would hang, listlessly beaten by the wind, emaciated modiglianis, awaiting the first warm thrush of spring evening. and so i remember getting up gingerly, as she was still sleeping, and then when her eyes opened, suggesting brunch.

it was one of those diners where the smell of dead maple leaves combined with that of gasoline, managing a charm as only an eternal boxcar can. the type of place where the old waitresses, with their heavy lipstick and boston accents, asked, "what'll it be, sweetie?" and you could answer, "chocolate milk, ma'am." or, "two double vodka highballs and two for yourself, and i'll take you back to your place and shag you rotten." and they'd reply, "very good, sweetie," flashing a bright smile.

the food was good and simple. coffee and french toast with apples and cinnamon. and you didn't mind the stale scent of bloody marys, nor the staler scent of pallid students after their long night out.

(the dahlias were sucked into the morning campfire with a shudder.)

"what are your plans for the day?" she asked.

"i think i'm gonna try to get some work done later. you?"

"oh, nothing in particular. let's walk around for a bit?"

"sure."

we stepped outside.

"can i grab a smoke?"

"yeah."

"bless your soul."

the ghastly stranger lit the cigarette and continued on, muttering inexplicable verse.

we walked around the streets looking into the furniture shops and art stores. violet seemed engrossed by the experience, and i liked looking at the paintings by the local artists, which hung on the plush walls of most stores. many were predictable subway deptictions, abandoned vans, and cafe scenes. a particular painting caught me. it seemed to be a poster for the circus, with a red hussar, and a severe trapeze, an orange tiger, his paw morphing into flames and a curious ruby eye. the ringleader was emblazoned with a delicate pencil mustache, emphasizing the heavenly russian sect of circus performer lore.

"you should buy that," violet said.

"nah, maybe next time. are you cool? i should probably be going."

"yeah," as she fingered a beaded curtain with empty hands.

on the street, i kissed her goodbye, which was something waiting to become another thing, and we parted.

later that afternoon, i walked to the square where the university's gothic cathedral pandered to the lunar gloss. i stepped into the coffee shop, ordered an au laite, and began to read. i'd always read before i'd write, if only to make the world more real, or perhaps simply to shed dead skin. hemingway was a wonderful companion, and i watched the fishermen of the seine fish with their long poles to catch the goujon.

i realized i had nothing to write and left feeling very empty. but it had begun snowing, and the stars were wilting, their stems cast aglow in the dim streetlight, and no longer dying a thirsty death.

an explanation of metaphysics, or the world is a pile of hay

i called her, feeling a bit guilty, and asked if she'd like to meet for korean. without questions or qualification, she said she did. i felt relieved.

at 8:00 o'clock we met at this little five table restaurant called, "seoul food." violet was dressed more casually than i'd seen her before, wearing a sweatshirt, her fingers poking through her mittens, and her silver shoes sparkling at the bottom of her jeans. everything felt very comfortable.

"how was your weekend?" she asked.

"nothing special. emily and her friends like that karaoke game far too much. i hope it combusts. how'd everything go in new york?"

"the show went well, and keith's parents were hanging around at the after-party, which was funny and strange. oh, oscar called and left an indecipherable message saturday night. i went to the united nations, but nobody could translate. i wish you would have called at some point."

"sorry... well, i did today."

and so we shared a vegetable pancake, and each ordered the best stone pot bi bim bap in the city.

we finished eating and left the restaurant. the biting cold stung my chest, as i had on an old workshirt sans undershirt. violet looked maybe parisian, and there was a moment of heartbreaking something caught between us silence, before:

"do you have plans," she asked.

"no."

"good. i'd like to tell you about a dream."

"i know just the place for that," i said.

we hopped into my car, and i drove, and parked at the mount auburn cemetery, telling her we could sneak in.

we snuck in through an opening in the fence and admired the dead meadow, the place where time didn't matter, where possibly on the horizon was an endless train puffing to a quaint station by the ocean. the dead trees swung violently in the wind, and beyond, on the street, an old asian lady pushed a shopping cart covered with a canvas, an insane oleander amplifying the sadness of the landscape.

we sat on a bench and shared a cigarette. i asked her about her dream. she said she'd tell me but wanted to hear a ghost story first. i began by describing the eye, the pale blue eye, closed, not allowing itself to be murdered, and then the knocking, growing louder and louder, it was the heartbeat, the sound of the heart opened the eye, which was too much, and it was murdered, violenty and remorselessly, and put to rest under the floorboards. and then i told her of my awakening dreams, my dreams and not-dreams, every one a movie house dream i script in octosyllabic verse, my own manifestations of wild literary world sensualism drugged under the sun.

i asked her if she'd like a glass of wine at my apartment, where she could tell me about her dream. she agreed, and so we left.

back at the flat, i took a bottle of wine to my room.

"time to spill," i said.

"okay. well, i'll begin it, but you may be able to tell it better."

and she kissed me.

"what happens next," she asked.

i took her close and whispered.

"you're bad."

"mad, bad, and dangerous to know. now let's take that shirt off."

we undressed, and i took her in my arms. i felt strong, and i think she liked the contrast of my white arms on her black skin, and we tendered love scenes -- into the blinking stars, as the wind whipped, whipped, whipped as it's wont to do on cold february nights in cambridge.