the sea and the land.

“The Sea and the Land. (1)”

(Epigraph: “The Sea” and “The Land” by Georgia O’Keeffe.)

“Teen pregnancy tragedy,” an Oprah Winfrey billboard reads. “Friday at 3 PM.” If ElimiDate and any number of Ichiban products no longer do the trick for you on a contemplative after-work weeknight, try letting the lack of stars overhead smother you to sleep, only to wake up sprawled out just below Oprah’s smiling face, probably the cause of at least three fenderbenders a week in each of thirty disparate roads winding down random crevices of greater Los Angeles. It’s tough being Oprah. To have to smile through everyone’s half-hour lunchbreak as seagull excrement drip-dries down the side of your face like white mascara tears down to the left dimple. And to get out of bed when the sun floods in like fatty tissue and then the slavework of filling up the Britta for some pretentious distillation. And to see what She sees at that same deathly hour: through a film of glue and gauze or the marine layer being ejaculated out by morning land breeze/smog: foothills of salty sea green, the grey and stink of his afterwards-cigarette, a large dark pink rectangle rising from unknown pits. You’re higher than the Hollywood sign when it’s time to punch out and get back on the 101. And one day you finally realize your growth has been stunted inside a large metal frame of my big smiling face, me: some 5’6” 130 # balding preppy dude in law school at USC asking you if you think you bring all the boys to the yard. I smear my hand around your belly and lean in for a kiss as though you were watching through a fish-eye lens. And you dare ask: what rough beast emerges on the horizon at this hour, crawling up my throat to be greeted with a bird poop smile?

“The Sea and the Land. (2)”

(Epigraph: “New Mexico Skies (August Skies)” by Victor Higgins.)

When you get far enough out, the waves are no longer audible or in motion. They haven't broken off yet to hit the coast. I’ve been hanging onto its edge in silence for what seemed like thirty seconds, enjoying the days and nights over the Santa Fe mountains moving like Koyaanisqatsi. You and I were only ex-boyfriends for a week, and that’s because I kicked Chris Livingston in the shin at Albuquerque Pride for telling everyone I blew him. And here we are at Santa Fe Pride, surrounded by middle-aged lesbians with perms sipping on Long Islands discussing coupons. I sat on the edge of the wall while you leaned against it. There was a weird touristy attraction to climb down this tube and stand on a precarious rubber boaty thing from the ship. It looked kind of like that contraption the Indians got scammed into installing on the side of the Grand Canyon. I kept worrying that it'd drift far away, so I insisted you join me going on it. The ocean was stormy, and we climbed through a rubber tube like in a playground, except it was large enough and we were old enough that we could stand. It took us years to climb through it, but when we did it broke off from the main vessel, no longer protecting us from water. And then it hit a point where it was static, and at a certain point, the water wasn't water anymore, but snow-glazed dirt-like-looking. That wall is still there, and the mountains, and Central Ave where we once got hot dogs and you wore glasses and we both looked sleep-deprived and on acid.