second seeded and i can see straight. alliterations overrated, high on methamphetamines. the push is no longer a pull as its gifted and receptive. mush. the trucks outside and i should be in it, wet with rain it still needs a good washing. the white, specked with adhesives, collecting dirt. no longer a thought but a memory, stuffed in the bank like an adventurers canoe rammed creek side. kids chasing frogs and turtles jumpin back in to the safety of a swim. we had gigs and flashlight, cressys pond was our locale. grandma said please and we brought back buckets. ive forgotten how to clean a frog these days but i can see the brown spots upon that always wet green skin. she kept her hair short, grey with a tinge of purple it seemed. she was punk before i knew what it was. she wore a pendant on her navy sweater every day. i think of her often as she left the world in the late nineties. mother was calling me asking me to come home from san francisco but i was to broke staying in a flop at o'farrell and jones. homeboys liquors calling cards were expensive. i found payphones back then, dirty in this city. could it have been ninety-eight? i need to find those photos. sf for sixteen years now. not straight thru but probably at least once every year since and for the last four. this transitional city and the no vacancy vacancies. vacationers know whats up. keep it special. here is a learned sort of lie. "its great, ill never buy a house." but who's dream was imposed on me all those years back...and for how long. who were you? still working on working. still writing about writing. still in love with being in love. the windows open, its february and a few birds are speaking different languges to one another. like a taxi ride from lax into that oblivion that was. they couldnt beat it out of me. betty you are missed, i remember your embrace. i will not turn my back. kicking.