the reports, the reports, theres so many

reports, you cant get away from

traffic, be it 280, 580, or

101, its done, and what I know is

belted into cogent cushions.. I’m not kerouac, Im just

a rare so thatched– good, first, but

when I climb the cliffs, I only fall, too

much of that old zin, its my

sisters fault, those goddamn

winemakers, I drive down to some beach by big sur, or

near carmel, I wish for bells, but I think,

no answer, why cant i get a bloody answer, question always of

a teacher, literature, its boring to young people–

i can say that now, and it makes me fucking

si ck