I saw a shooting star in the smog-filled sky. Natty-Ice gulping in a Garden Grove backyard. And it is all bright tips of cigarettes burning, dancing through the dark in arcs of orange. Crisp in the streetlight glow, we are each and every one hiding behind concrete walls. Block after block of concrete walls. One story adobe houses painted in pastels. Light posts eerie in the night time. and there is traffic on the other side. Houses stacked down the street. Block after block. Block after block.
Let the Santa Anna winds blow down from the hills, blow down from the California sky. Belligerent and waiting on the sunrise. Bike rides in the dark. But there is no dark. Electric daytime all night long. Fast-food feasting for days on end. And it is a blur of constant motion.
For two days I've hung half-hooked on rollies with my climbing comrades J.P. and Albert. Pure punk with the Garden Grove crew and it has been sunny California all day, everyday.
Right now I'm planning an exit strategy. Got to make it to LAX before six o'clock for the old pat-down outta-town send me on my way. Seventeen hours on a plane bound south, and I'm flying into the future.
Peaches.
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