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."