Writer’s Block Generated Words
The feeling of having nothing to write about has been my moda operandi. Below are things I wrote the past few days for the sake of fun.
The Shrimp:
I do not know how many times I have to tell you, I am not crying, it is the shrimp.
I thought I saw a nun on this island (that is a Californian fracture floating in the Pacific)
while you told me there were no cars here.
You lied about the cars, so we ate chilaquiles for breakfast.
I saw an eagle and you almost did not believe me, but when you saw it with your own eyes the tears rolled down my cheeks because the peg legged man started in on the shrimp.
Shellfish decapitation via a mouth full of gap teeth.
It was those comma shaped shellfish that made my eyes well.
It had nothing to do with your bad news and late apologies.
It had nothing to do with the phone booth conversation.
It had nothing to do with the cloudy sunset or the fact that the donut shop closed when we were early.
It was the shrimp and maybe because Hooters is for lease.
But I saw that rental sign too late and now I am a dog food copywriter who cries at the sight of empty shrimp tails with unmade bed head while lunch break albums become the soundtrack to my curb ditchers anonymous meetings.
I fight the compulsion to leave cracked plates, broken cameras, empty drawers, and used notepads for someone else.
These used goods make me think of Spud in Georgia.
The man who knows a lot about the shrimping industry and had to take four germans fishing for salmon. A man that I remember because I wrote about him in one of the notepads I left out on the curb.
I never told you about the time Spud told me about the movers and shakers of the sport fishing industry. He interrupted his story about hooks, lines, and sinkers to remind me that his ex-father in law was an auctioneer.
In case you were wondering Spud also said,
“If fish had legs they would run like a river and Eagles would use hand soap and every heart would have a bald spot. The president would run the country like a bathroom democracy smacking his gavel on sleazy chicken thighs declaring blisters henceforth are to be called shoe bites.”
These tears of mine are not the Crocodile kind because this is not a zoo or Australia,
although I could fly a shark kite if I wanted to.
These tears of mine are because of the shrimp.
The comma shaped shell fish that go from raw translucence to pink cooked opaqueness.
Rubbery fishy apostrophes to cocktail sauce.
Parenthetical seafood that leaves room for interpretation.
Monday Morning:
This American life is all about touching grass and getting cash,
while Benjamin green parrots perch on sunlit eucalyptus.
During the slivers of the morning when the moon and sun share sky sized elbow room
I think of you living near that mountain range and how cold it must be for you there.
Does Monday Morning feel different in a landlocked state?
Would it feel better if parrots were there?
October in Reno, Nevada:
The dime store neon skyline colored in the lines of my four paned bay window.
The desert sunset afterglow stood above the souvenir shops and corners with decorative gas stations.
I stared at the Horseshoe Club’s back door when you were telling me about a curve in the road you almost did not follow.
We put our phones back on their land line hooks.
I would have followed you anywhere, but all your roads lead to your name up in lights and mine are not paved yet.
That is why I have spent thirty six hours in Reno, Nevada and you have not.
California Versus:
When the desert falls into the sea and the clock strikes Pacific Standard Time,
citrus peels tan on a pool deck next to the bikini clad army of women who are fluent in ultra violet rays.
Eventually, the sun lands in its horizon sized bed.
Some 400 miles north, this mirage of blonde is eclipsed by fog, cypress trees and ancient eucalyptus.
This is California Versus.
Where a bay requires multiple bridges that cargo ships duck under.
The hills are haunted and the ocean thrashes against cliffs with defunct relics sitting on their shoulders.
The earth up North is untamed.
Rugged and beautiful and scarred.
Shadows spill out of alleys and the past gets illuminated.
How things were
or rather, how things could have been.
There are sidewalk staircases protected by one way streets leaving no room for multiple choices to be made.
San Francisco is 7 by 7 miles.
Los Angeles is 29 by 44 miles.
Which means Los Angeles is bigger and has more palm trees on fire
And San Francisco is smaller and steeper with more avenues to fall down.
