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Jet City Woman

and i've come to hate the west coast and everything it represents the desert of the real i used to adore the sun and glass the steel the cars the freeways the sense of motion and space but i've come to despise the freedom it appears to offer i've come to hate the easiness of everything how quickly desires are gratified and i've come to hate you hate your miscommunication your misspeaking engagements that you broke off with hardly a glance back and i asked you if you wanted to talk later and you said you couldn't and nothing more so i asked if you mean at this time or in general and you didn't answer so i think i catch your continental drift like a fastball in the face and i keep thinking about the streets you named the bars you went where you picked people up the people you fucked whose names you don't remember the drugs which destroyed your beauty and left you looking empty and vacant like an office building erected in the 1980s boom of construction which is now slated for demolition its marbled walls dusty from disuse and mobile tenants occupying the space for a while and moving on to something new i never thought of your work as a metaphor for your life but now that i think back on the calls you placed from the airport i can only conclude that it's appropriate to describe you in terms of arrivals and departures with the periodic aeronautic disaster and for me you were a midair collision in retrospect i should never have asked you to come here to come see the impossibly blue water that only exists in movies and the overwhelming glare from chromed cars on the streets because you drained my reservoirs of water and emotions delightedly taking the last tears i possessed as if they were jewels that you wanted to carry home and i never thought i could explain jean baudrillard with sam kinison but it's sand nothing grows in it

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Last modified on Wednesday, March 26, 2008