previously published in Apple Valley Review, Vol. 13 (No. 1)
Hollywood at night is either really sad or beautiful. The lights. The sleepers on the ground. Girls crying. Attractions. Guitars. Stars. Pink dresses. Boots. Hats. Food and drink. Sometimes I drink too much and take a cab home. I will be home soon in bed. I will wake up in six hours. I’ll be home in nine minutes. I’m tired and drunk. My brain feels like fog. I want fried potatoes. I want food and drink. I saw so many old friends tonight. He gets on the freeway. This is where I lose service when I talk to my mother. Call me back she says. I can’t hear you well she says. Then the line goes. I pop my ears in the mountains. A ritual. Everyone I know is in love. I hear them talk about how the love will never end. They open their mouths wide like the queen of hearts. Their eyes become large and I believe them. I believe them because I am them. We share a human heart. We are holding onto bottles. We are holding on so tight.