11:55pm. The dog just came out, my old friend. He’s getting up there. “Hey, boy. Can you sit?” The dog sits. “Good, kid. Good.” Not more than 50 feet is the ocean. OK, more like 100, but who cares. Back home if it was cold it didn’t matter if it was 0 or minus 20, so who’s counting. Still, I feel the need to mark with some accuracy my point in terms of land and ocean. Gimme a sec…200 feet, then sand, then salt-water. On the other side of me, that would be east, immediately, is the street, the one that connects the alphabets, and the cars are random. I cannot hear the ocean, but I can hear the random vehicles. They are like the covers of waves. This I know. At the Santa Monica Public Library I listened to Philip Glass, the boxed set. Now playing, in my head, is the live version of Glass Works. That’s a great one, a real must. I keep hearing from the neighbors there’s a family of possums around here, but I haven’t seen them yet. The dog knows. The dogs knows like I know about the similarity between covers of waves and passing vehicles. Who cares. I care. Still waiting for JD Salinger to die? Well, let me tell ya, he’s not gonna, so go ahead and breathe. He took that Swede to court I heard, for making that sequel. He said to why not just go ahead and re-read Catcher if you’re so damned intent upon hearing about HC again. I’m paraphrasing here. You get the point. Obsess about something else. OK, I will. I’ll obsess over the Glass family, then. Good. There. Done. I want to meet Franny, I think, and Seymour. I love that story about riding on the handlebars. I never got off them. At the supermarket tonight they’ve really suckered you into buying the mix and match: 10 and you get $5 back. I couldn’t think of the eighth, ninth or tenth items to buy. I did not receive the $5. I still got a deal. There are deals everywhere, haven’t you noticed. Yes, I noticed. Makes me feel like I should buy something, makes me feel like I am depressed because every shop has deals and that makes them look desperate. Jugs of water, they’re now in square containers. They must really be trying to economize. I bet they’ve made more room for 30 more jugs in the back of those semis. Well, what am I drinking water from a square jug anyhow, I should just buy a Brita, I should just trust the tap. My phone keeps jingling. I am going to silence the damn thing. Have you noticed all the bowed heads in the world lately? I have. A neck doctor, that’s what you should go in to. I bet in the coming years we’re all going to have such crooked necks. Frankly, phones these days aren’t as easy to pin between the head and shoulder. In fact, phones are really not even phones anymore, are they. No, they’re devices to email, text, download Apps- everything but talk on the phone.

It’s 9:30 pm, and it’s still light out. The place where I’ve just played, the Paradiso, the back part is the canal, some of it, anyway. Boats are docked, but no one’s on them, no one’s in them. The owners, I bet, are taking the night out on the town. I wonder if they continue to just drift along when they’ve seen enough? If so, where do they drift along? I ought to do more investigating into these canals. Some of the prettiest canals are in Utrecht. That city’s truly grand. Well, I’m sitting on a leather chair, a square one, one that looked like it once belonged to a private club somewhere, or taken from storage at Princeton U. It’s a comfy chair, and so I’m content to just sit a while. Yesterday, I trained to Manhattan, and then I took a guitar to a repair shop. They found nothing wrong with it. It’s a nice guitar, the man said. Yes, I responded, it is, isn’t it. Yes, he said, it is. Then I thought perhaps he didn’t think I deserved owning this particular guitar. I don’t feel like I deserve to own anything. In fact, I don’t own this particular guitar. No. I don’t. My friend Gregory Page emailed me. He’s in Australia. He’s to be there for 2 months. I told him to enjoy himself, that it’s later than you think. He fired me back another email what I meant by that. I wrote, You know, like the song. Then I remembered what it’s like being in a part of the land that’s unfamiliar and how email can be so damned ambiguous. Sorry, Gregory, I wrote, I should’ve been more sensitive. Sorry. But how much fun would it be to be in Australia. I’ve never been there, but hey, it’s on my list. 

I am writing from the upstairs of a very old farmstead built in 1743. Near here was the Battle of Caulk’s Field, and in this farmstead, probably in the room I’m staying, died a young, brave British commander, Peter Parker. He was wounded, carried here, cared for, then perished. His portrait is on the mantle. This is the day off. This morning Jeremy the Searcher, Adam Pierce, Gregory and the Hawk’s Meredith and I went into town. I was somewhat reluctant leaving this 1000-acre farmstead, but coffee and the breakfast item Norwegian Excursion at coffeehouse Play It Again Sam, Franny and Zooey at the local used bookstore, a personal gift at one of the town’s haberdasheries, a trip to UPS, and a run to the super market for a bag coals proved to keep my mind at bay. I am drawn to the land, I know. That’s the reason why, and it doesn’t matter where I go it always reminds me of North Dakota. The ladies at the haberdashery I bought that personal gift laughed when I told them that: “I couldn’t imagine Chestertown reminded you, son, of North Dakota.” Well, I told them, but it does. In one of the closets I found a hanger. My new white shirt I bought before I left is airing out. It’s a nice white shirt, I think. Funny, it’s damn hard to find a nice white shirt. Where does one find a nice white shirt? Well, I don’t know- Rockmount, for starters. I have packed very little this go around. Most of it is albums. I brought too many books, and now, I have another one to tote. I mentioned Fran and Zooey. Jeremy the Searcher is reading Nine Stories. I suppose Salinger’s been on my mind. I received an article from a friend, a recent article, about the Salingerians- devoted fans of the man, waiting for his estate to release the volumes of stuff. I guess that means ol’ J.D. has to die first. A morbid thought, yes, but have you ever read The Laughing Man?

I’m in Washington D.C. Gregory and the Hawk is sitting across the room from me; she’s on her computer. We’re in the green room at the venue the Rock and Roll Hotel. There is noise, but not from the Mice Parade. It’s the air-conditioner, it’s rattling away. I gotta tell ya, I love rattling air-conditioners. Is it because everyone I’ve been around is junky? Is it because they remind me of summer? No clue. It’s cool in here. The thing is doing its job. It reads 62 degrees, but I doubt it. Let me also say the room smells like bar food. It’s a nice change, though, now the no smoking ban is in full swing. I’m so used to it by now I can hardly believe at one point smokers could smoke anywhere they wanted. Well, I try not be a complainer. I try, anyway. My hand hurts. I was bit by a dog. It’s a long story. It involves walking through a residential neighborhood, an SUV, and a dog not on a leash. My friend Marn had to take me to ER. That’s twice she’s had to do that. Thanks, Marn. Two days ago I was in Orlando. Yesterday, Charlotte. Tomorrow, Mice Parade, GATH and I will have a day off. Maybe we’ll find a cold water creek somewhere, BBQ and lemonade? Is it too early for that? No, never too early for that. Then, it’s to Europe. I don’t know what I’ll do when I get back to America later this month. I have a few days off then, too. There’s a western seaboard tour planned with Shelley Short and Ethan Rose, but that’s not until mid-June. What am I going to do until then? I could put together that scrapbook idea; I could work on that other thing; I could donate my time to the Salvation Army; I could comb the beach with my metal detector; I could run a marathon; I could read Neon Bible; I could read the Suitors; I could write my Grandma a letter- i think I’ll write my Grandma a letter. That sounds good. I can do that. 

It’s all right there in front of you. It’s all right there, so go ahead, take it, have a taste. Go on now. The city’s behind you. Can’t you feel it? Not L.A. I said city, not mushroom. How about Chicago? If you try telling me Chicago’s spread out, well, not compared to L.A. it’s not. I can feel that kind of city, and I feel it right now, especially when I think of late fall and the cold’s come in and you’re nigh a main thoroughfare and your lungs fill with exhaust from the bus, automobiles, electric dryness of trains, and vapor from manholes and gutters. Funny, the city has nothing to do with what’s in front of me. I don’t know how it came to be the city’s mate is the woman? It’s not like we’re dealing with the pairing of socks, here. Having said that, don’t look down. No, it’s not a trick. One foot is cassocked black. The other is white. Quite the fashion statement, there. The job gets done. Sure, you can expect a jeer from the prep. Still, city and woman? If I took a stab it’d be I feel I’m working for something. You’ll pardon me if that’s hauteur. I don’t mean it that way. I mean something else, like faces stepping off boats, footsteps, too. Some of those very footsteps have remained untouched, I bet, all this time, untouched by any other footstep, meaning no one footstep has now or since has been stubbed. Brailled by rain, snow, sun, O.K., but touched only if the wind has dragged an article, a tote. Things change on a dime. They do with me. If I had to say again why it’d be I’m lonesome, that I’ve felt the city, I’ve felt the woman, I’ve felt them both at once, I’ve felt them discretely. Working for something sounds better. I should just stick with that and not mind what they say. She’s from Reykjavik. She’s irreverent. Nothing from her adolescence has yet burned from her face. It’s corpulent. It smacks of a girl living under dada’s roof. Yes, she likes fish, and akvavit. She’s brusque. That’s confidence. She’s actually sweet. Use the chalk, I said. This is what she wrote:

I love you; Rub my spine; Yes, to the trash with the leftovers; Close the door; I miss my crazy mother.

Her father had land. He operated an establishment. Reykjavik’s not the same woman when it comes to the city. That’s Olivia. Olivia’s the one who hides freckles. I have seen her naked. First it was her face after she lathered soap for washing. Brown dots brought out depth and charge to her sockets and bridge. I am reticent. Then there’s necessity. I said, Olivia, you shouldn’t smoke so much, and sleep a while longer. She disrobed. Then, as sidecar to the motorbike, her face, in front of the blinds, in vertical light, her décolleté did confirm they were speeders of the motorway, enjoyers of the expanse. Does the face…, I began. Nothing. The face, I told myself, is always the driver. There it is, you ox, right in front of you. I can only go so far. Olivia and her valuables on the floor. Is it just at my house? Effects- earrings, rings, a black necklace, a wristwatch- are over there on the ground by the electric outlet, the twin ghosts. Olivia and her music; a sort of classical meets pump organ and computer. It’s playing now. It’s happening live. The reception isn’t bad. My attention collects. She speaks. Her mouth, it turns. “Call them what you want,” she said. I’m pretty sure we were in the moment. I called them breasts. She wanted something else. What, bust? That didn’t do. Bosom? Uh-uh. Olivia, I could fall asleep with your voice. The one from Reykjavik, hers has the tone of a witch’s anathemas. Not Olivia. Hers is furry. It’s coming, Olivia said, the attack of the violin! I like the attack. We listened. It sounded good and fake. Her mouth turned again. I never did want to go any farther. Olivia remains right there. So will the city, and all those lights and things going off. Olivia’s looking at me. She rests on her front side. Miasma, fill the cups in the cabinets, why don’t ya. I will save her for later. For now, let me settle for silk over skin, curtains for lips. I get her smiling teeth and derriere. I know, and she knows, that they want to be fulfilled. I know, but she does not know, I am not the one. It is all connected. One hand to the curb. One hand to the heart. Leggings shift. One black, one white! Who do you think you are? It’s the prep. No one, I say. He laughs. They laugh. I hold. I think, Who do you think you are? Where’s the emphasis? The who, the think, the first or second you? I do not emphasize the no. I do not emphasize the one. I want to mention the word vicus. Shrunk & White say not to put on airs. Again, who do you think you are? No one, I say, and I rise and back up into the alley. Then the bus comes. I have three quarters. One has a buffalo. One has a drummer. I think one has a peach tree. I will stand to lose them. I am at the house. The transom’s ajar. Mrs. Huck is home. “Come in,” she says. “Should I take off my shoes?” “Don’t bother. Red Wings, I know they can take forever. Come in,” she says. Everything’s light green, white, mint, and tea’s on the table. I can’t smell the tea. Everything’s light green, white, and mint, yeah, but where’s that orange coming from? Even through the orange I can tell the smoke. There’s one unattended now. I am thinking one thing and taking in something different. “Won’t you sit.” “Thanks, Mrs. Huck.” Now, I’m expecting the cat to bark. Thinking one thing and taking in something different. Where’s the melody? There it is. And the lines?

The bartender’s singing Clementine

While he’s turning around the open sign

“It was war-time. Harold was dead. We didn’t know. Kelly wasn’t born. Gary had the colic. Rita was 2. Virginia, Harold’s mother, was living with us. She was disciplined. She helped with the cooking and the kids, and every evening we’d sit with her in the living room and listened to the broadcast. Virginia otherwise loved reading and smoking.” There’s a pause. “Virginia would play bridge with her potluck. I liked Mrs. Renford best. Connie was her name. My, she was so delightful, so gentle in her way, and natural, too. She was handsome. She never let on she was smarter than the rest, but you know what? She was smarter than the rest. Virginia was smart, too.” There’s a pause. “Virginia was disciplined.” The cat’s at the arm of the chair. The chair is difficult. Skin and bone have had enough time. My coccyx is irritated. The chair is katalox. I shift to itch my coccyx. The cat’s at the arm of the chair. Any minute now I’m expecting a bark. Please, I send out in the ether, prove me wrong. There comes a ding from the kitchen. Mrs. Huck is pleasant. She must tend to something. It won’t take a second. There are pictures on the wall. That clock couldn’t be louder. Damn that thing! Cat, don’t bark. Candies in the crystal, how long have you been there? I’d pick at one. I know that one would be fastened to the whole lot. It would be a ball. They look good, though. They’re assorted. It’s hot in this place. No wonder. It’s a windless day. I don’t want to ask Mrs. Huck to turn on the air. There is no air. I don’t want to stay long. I must get back to the city. The cat meows. Thank God. Mrs. Huck says the rinds in the pie need extra cooling before the pie can be masticated. I think that’s what she said. I say, I didn’t know there’d be pie. Well, you do now, she says. The city will have to wait. Do you like fruit pie, she asks. I say, Is there any other kind. The cigarette remains unattended. Something hits me. There’s a third party. The city is behind you, sure, but, presently, Virginia is, too. She’s eons. Oh, I said, I didn’t notice you sitting there. She’s got dementia, Mrs. Huck says from the kitchen, so don’t bother. Virginia’s beady little eyes make me feel undesirable. They fall to my boots. Great, she must think I am without manners. I’ll win her over. Don’t you look nice in your olive dress, Miss Virginia, I say. You blend right in with everything, don’t you. I have to help her smoke, Mrs. Huck says returning to her seat. It’s the only thing that keeps her alive. What, smoking, I say. Yes, that and Coke, Mrs. Huck says, though I’m afraid it has added to the putrefaction of human life. What, Coke, I ask. The combination, Mrs. Huck says tapping off the ash, bringing the butt to Miss Virginia’s quaking lips. All of her smarts have settled there. I am no great interviewer. I know very little. I am only moved to do very few and certain things. Give me a rock. No, not those pebbles of tar. Nor the white landscaping ones. Nor the porous ones I found in your yard, although those ones would reshape my calloused feet. When I ask, Give me a rock, those simply won’t do. I’m looking for something smooth, something the size of a loonie. When I ask, Give me a rock, I don’t want you to find me a rock. No man can choose another man’s rock. Let him wander. Let me. There is no city. I am in an open field. I hear the finches. They are nowhere. The wild bulghur is combed-over. I should faggot some for later soaking. I must remain faithful to my mission. Who knows how much time is left. My pockets, they’re darned from the very same fabric used to make your heav’nly bed. My pockets are stalwart. My hands go deep. Not to my sex. Just half-ways. Just to my wrists. I will not go deeper. There’s a pool. A lean-to. It is covered with little bodies. They are Canadian Soldiers. Look closely. Do you see? They are at rest. Closer. It is only their skin. I am sad. There is no one else around, but water. It’s got to be fresh. I am tired. I am thirsting. There’re somethings in the pool. The pool drops. The somethings see me at the edge. They go deeper. For them there s no limit. The water is fresh. Ladles, make me physically powerful. One brings silt. Another brings stone. There’s my stone. It is smooth. Let me recline in the parting bulghur to suck on my stone.

Today, rain. I love cars on the street. The sound-effect could be plastic bags in trees. Tires are kneading water and pollutants. There’s a skim of sudsy whiteness on the blacktop. The apartment faces west. The Pacific is 11 blocks. I never see the ocean, not anymore.

The heater is on for the first time since I’ve lived here; this past half-hour has smelled of burning dust! The doorbell has sounded for the first time, too. It was Richard the landlord. Together, he and Jose the groundskeeper vacuumed the Honeywell. “A little late,” I told Richard. Jose doesn’t understand English. “Why’s that,” Richard returned. “Think I’ve already burned all the dust?” “Well,” Richard continued, “we want to do it anyway,” and he nodded Jose to the Honeywell, flickered his finger to open the grill, then flickered his finger to plug the upright in the guest bathroom socket.

What to wear? It’s cold. I want to blend-in. How about those Army fatigues?

I’ve a pair of fatigues. They’re not authentic, not Gov’t issued. No, they’re ones from Target. They have a drawstring. They’re breaking. The pocket on the right side, for instance, has begun a hole. I lost a set of keys, some change, a five-dollar bill. Reminds me when I left. It was hot in there. I was in a rush. Oh, how I bunched everything together in a rush! I cuddled my clothes from our closet, cuddled them on hangers, accidentally took one of your Oxfords, brought them out, stuffed them in the trunk. I recall that day in Target. You were upset. They only had 36-in-length. “Don’t get those! They’re too big for you!”

Been a while since I’ve worn these I dressed in them. I unrolled the legs. Bet I haven’t worn these ones since last summer? The camouflage is engineered for that stressed look. They are soft, totally useless in war, I bet, conspicuous. Camouflage probably doesn’t work!

I’ve not been back to Marina del Rey, not even on a sentimental drive-by. I’ve been bad about that. I told you I’d come visit the dog, take him on walks, bathe him, give him plenty of attention. I’ve not done any of this. I love Tony, even after the incident with the retriever, how he took that beautiful coat down to the skull. I’m still sorry over that. The retriever, Gracey, was confused at the new sensation of cool air on pure white bone. It was fascinating. I watched as she pawed at the wound, shook her head, breathed fast, tongue out, starving for water. Jared, Gracey’s owner, quieted, paled, then puked so unexpectedly, so feverishly, it even came out of his nostrils.

Sand from the Pacific spilled out and nestled in the carpet. I can’t say for sure: I’ll bet that’s never happen here at this apartment, not in the room I call my room. Part of me wanted Jose to come give the place a good vacuum. Jose has gold-lined teeth. I saw that, and I notice his belt, a western motif, when he knelt to unravel the stiff electrical cord. He smelled of Downy. Jose has his own agenda, his own life, though, and can’t be bothered with these kinds of tasks. B’sides, he’s the groundskeeper! I’d just be just another gringo flickering his finger. I don’t want that. That’s not me.

No way these fatigues would do in actual battle! They’re too baggy. I picture myself scaling fences of barbed wire, going through the muck, long-distance running, carrying ammo. Pants like this would snag; they’d slow me down, chaff the legs, the groin; they’d rip, tear; display weakness against water, sun, wind, cold, heat, disease, bugs.

I don’t mind it’s raining. It’s nice for a change. I didn’t mind the burning dust. It was a pleasant surprise having the guys over to vacuum. I thought that was a nice gesture. It was good hearing the doorbell. It has such very lovely resonance. The events today have provided me a much over-do distraction. I look for that, you know, distraction. It’s harder to come-by than you’d think. I’ve never had success sussing out distraction. It just arrives at your door.