Bobby’s Coffee Shop

this morning waking up feeling panicky because I don’t know how to consolidate all of the things I’ve seen and experienced in the last few years, there are huge gaps in my comprehension of events, there are lessons I’ve learned and had to re-learn over and over. sitting here in bobby’s coffee shop in my mind’s heaven along ventura and fall brook ordering fruit cups and endless house refills maybe toast and using the steam of the nutrients to guide my wrists next to the nameless black glass building and the seven eleven and the copy center and the dumpsters out back with the lived-in shopping cart and the massage parlor next door only for appendages and always with asian men in white frocks sitting out under the back awning playing cards and further down the dive bar and pet cemetery and mexican restaurant, the jobless wanderer in this midst who, freshly 21 years, would sit with a forty on the overpass separating woodland hills north and south the topanga mulholland district from the ventura blvd shit storm. Sweep some glass away so I can sit there and crack open a grocery bag of beers I brought to watch the endless stream of light beams streaming from the heads or tails of cars, in a great blur of white and red and never ending, just whooshing along to somewhere west or somewhere east and if I squint enough, after tall boy three, I can see the glimmering malibu dreamland to the west and the smog filtered dirt yellow hell of hollywood to that ungodly east, the inland empire of smut and smog and soot and fog, the garbage in window displays, the gum stuck to the celebratory stars on the sidewalk of the strip, maybe semen too, and the palm trees bending away from the terrible sun, the worst air in the country, the praying mantis along the towel room in canoga and the evidence of sex in the stairwell and the pool itself, the low flying helicopter mounting the dirty field of dreams where no kids play but mexican families wander with intent to set up camp and picnic or derange themselves from their taco trucks and abandoned shopping carts outside their electronically gated, white pillared, pool area with praying mantises waiting in the towel shed instead and let them live, cockroaches scuttling across the hardwood, maybe actual little scittering noises with the hard shelled antennae and the vivacity of their intent to outlive our nuclear holocaust.

There in L.A. I have filtered so much nonsense through my irises and feelers and can barely hold my identity together when I juxtapose this against what I’ve become. Taking the evergreen for granted. Dismissing the rain for its sidewaysness. Getting off at the wrong stop and then waiting there for the next bus. How on earth do I continue to live without the same nerve with which to bounce the world off of. The sensory gland for raw experience is poorly used nowadays. I may be busy but for what and with what. The raw ambition and intent is disappeared. Behind the towel rack a praying mantis.

Typical diner. Right there behind the black gate of the studio. “Thank you, buddy” they say with some Mediterranean accent, unplaceable with a pinprick on a map. Mirrors all over. Red plastic chairs. Black and white tiled floor. Jukebox, only after noon. Open from 5 to 2 every morning. Fueling me with certainty.

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