The beautiful pink streaks
strewn across the bay.
Day 2: Fog tumbles across the bay,
an absurd wreck of degenerate sentences
in a cereal box. Coffee Crisps
wrapped with a pink bow,
only from Canada, mere
confusion. Drunk the night of the 3rd.
Walking along Ocean Beach
next morning, sitting in the dunes,
writing,
trying to. Road trip,
drop off
Oakland Airport
while fireworks go off and off.
Then back into his bed I’m
illegally parked
in front of somebody’s garage,
way too stoned with
The Simpsons. Somehow
neatly make it home. No
empathy—1 mph. Please
allow up to six weeks
for each blade of pink fog.
