You’ve seen the golden beaches under the Big Sur and walked the hot boulevards down in the valley but none of it amounts to much in the teeth of this kind of light. Even the snowpacked street glimmers electrically. We do not want to die, as the philosopher says, because we are too much in love with the phenomenology of the lit world.
In the coffeeshop where you write your poems a beautiful stranger will appear as if from nowhere and completely trash your dignity and poetic sensibility.
Your hipster comes packaged with a pre-programmed platitude subversion module. For example: “Identity is a myth,” he’ll say, winking, in the falafel store. “Everyone is the same.”
You, whose dog has run away to sing with the wolves, should not feel so entirely betrayed, nor should you hunt the woods calling his name, or post his picture in the paper, nor leave the door open should he return some damp evening soon, for he has already been eaten.
Why did you come out here of all places when you were well aware that there’s a Siberian man-eating tiger on the loose in the area? You peer into the woods behind you and see no tiger at all.
It’s Christmas and that means whiskey. You’ll sort of lean towards The Nomad and then there you are in the cozy-crowded bar. “Who wouldn’t believe in the birth of Christ when there’s Makers Mark?”