April 19, 2026

Lately I’ve been thinking of

him.

My blond bass player Georgia boy

how terribly it ended

w/ bruises & broken shredded

hearts

& the party where we met

at the Craftsman in Echo Park

was it really Halloween?

We escaped to the rooftop

& under the stars

we kissed — it was a melding

of bodies & fates

we blended then & we joked

about being Such Good Friends

I never fit w/ anyone else

in his life

a loose cannon ball on a

field of war

it was painful. So there

is that, another truth I

feel compelled not to tell.

I once met a slick rich dick

at a party in Austin

when I came back here

in the heyday of SXSW

mid-nineties

& he asked me in that

Los Angeles way

“What do you do?”

The question I can

never answer w/o a story

so I said “I’m a writer.”

“What do you write?”

“Oh, screenplays and sometimes features, and websites and poetry.”

“Oh,” he said, his eyes darkening.

“You’re a hack.”

I mean, sure buddy, if you want to call it that. I like to think I’m a jack & a jill

of all trades, but sure, I’m a hack.

I had to agree & then

I gathered up all the spit & vitriol I could

and I made him choke on it

w/ these words right here