the high the way
Dust through my eyelashes,
fluffed out pollen
California
ride the coastline up
down a redwood between you, me
yellowjackets eat meat
we laugh
stop for baby woodpecker bird to save
you say “it’s got spots, it’s a woodpecker”
look up at me, chirp, empty throat, dry and blind
I got nothing to regurgitate, not a worm, not a dream
So die in the sun in the rock
we talk about spotted wings, where we could
pretend end ain’t here nor there, right ahead
right around the bend, Highway One the only end
Smell seaweed, smell dandelion, call it weed
sleep in a bathtub Chico, California
Zach with his blonde hair, “he’s like a Greek god”
slides his dick in and out of her
We listen, open door one inch, record it in inches in our minds
she screams towards the end biting off edged sheets, pillows
the bend, the end, the spotted wings, the high the way, the only way
God damn she had a beautiful ass at two a.m.
Rock hard in a river of viticulture cultural major majors
“I’d suck on her armpit hair,” I say, say again
just a cigarette this time
Keep on truckin’, shirt ripped, all us are, the girls figure it funny
throw algebra and barbed raccoons at my neck
Send Ingram south to Santiago
Ship Joey north to Santa Cruz
Sail Ben out east to Wilmington
No one cares about Chris, he’s lost his head in the big mix up
And pukes up blood when appropriate
Suck me back into the canyon, revolution bible,
Still long hair
Still pastrami with mustard
Still burritos with carne asada
Still beer with morning
Still spit with shadow in Baja
back and forth between mouths of strangers
I look like you, I am you
I’ve seen you before, I’m here
I like your drapes and dig your book
tear out a page and wrap my dead,
bury slightly in the arid ear,
say a prayer for suffocating lung under dirt
I lie I lie I lie
But I see Chris again, the sidewalk, the I-don’t-care
He-does-care, we dance around the inevitable
We shake hands under a streetlamp, flicks on too early
Los Angeles smaller in twilight
Still I wash my hands in moon
Pray for a drink, won’t kill me
Justin J. Murphy
Justin J. Murphy was born in London to a Lebanese father and Californian mother. Clearly, “Murphy” is not his real last name. He enjoys mountain life, cosmic vibrations, and good old rock and roll. His poetry and short stories have been featured in Epicenter, The Café Review, El Portal, and Sixfold as well as several other fine publications. His novel, Whiskey Jelly Blues, will be published in Fall 2018 by Owl Canyon Press and a second novel, Let Me Tell You How It Isn’t, will be published in Summer 2019 by Pelekinesis.
