WAY TOO WEST 6

by Julien Poirier * Last Time: Cija Bellis and the Goalies. The Yarrows (what’s left) This Time:

       

                                                                             

                                             

                         

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------PLANTA NOVA DEPT. OF TOURISM Subject: “Getting There” Attn: Brain Maciel (DEEP BACKGROUND) Pls proof copy for intro to “Planta Nova & Environs” VISIT PLANTA NOVA Beach Boardwalk where they serve you Bone Ice Cream, Hair Ice Cream Software hull of horse chestnut & crack shot flintlock —an integral scoop whiter than white & bloodshot Bat bras lapping the lungs AIR CANE LAVA LAIR melt-in-your-mouth Filo Bux & Cupids deepfried in uranium. At the CIA Plant / Alien Plant the peach wallpaper burns itself into the mind of even onetime customers as does the faint but quaffable hunch that the sullen youth packing scoopers look too akin to bats to be accidental—In fact they hock loogies into the (frostbitten) tubs when things slow down + raindrops spiral in the Iron—like a carrot, a lacy steel erector set carrot—Tower at the north end of the boardwalk And the graffiti!

Out on the breeze blocks reminiscent of adobe —the sea wall commencing, in effect to melt into the beach dunes (o’erspread by the hideous “Master Key Suites” like a giant dwarf Hibachi Moth cocoon chopped in two)—Tags getting ruder as they near obscurity and the tide... The Internet is full of Shitt Steve Obs wore purple tites Hugo Chavez is a purple baboon UR Mai CD Hombray f/ Columbia hairball Mixtal Quetzylyentl like Dustbustin Hoofman on an Archipelago cija bellis sucks nazi dick (her mind a sanctuary for doomed thots) The other lady across the table—I mean these are nice people—insists that when she was in high school in the Bronx sixty years ago the girls wore 30s-style “shirt” swimsuits— “literally”—while the boys in adjacent lap pool, separated from the girls by a thick rolling wood wall, swam buck naked, and one fine day the boys—. Madeline scoffs. But after all she was not raised in the Bronx but in Brooklyn. She goes on and on about dogs and insists hers stopped eating when the groom implied he was fat. Rob won’t hear it. “Dogs, dogs will eat anything,” he says more than once. But he’s not debating her, it’s clear, not exactly. Just pleading an exasperating, indubitable fact about dogs. I can see he’s in pain. Now the doorbell is ringing nonstop and Rob introduces me to the new guests, but this lady overhears... Her: Me: Her: Me: What was it he said you are—eh?—a poet? A poet, yeah. (Consolingly) That’s OK. To be a poet. I think poets are good. (Utterly, blithely)—I think orange sweaters are good too. Is this sweater orange?

jellied turds found out on spits and drops of dandy pee “—at the Eldritch Sweet Shop.” “Old Hollywood studs on Crystal Cove in white terrycloth robes, their oiled black hair glimpsed through Chinese screens.” “‘At least they don’t butter their hair’—Rimbaud.” “’Cos they totally tore up Moro Beach,” adds T.J., a native. Nevertheless the bloodless coup that deposed the L.A. streetcar (back when high school boys swam naked in the Bronx) is news to him. Perfectly good news. “—a Troubadour, or a short hand, mangled on the breakrocks.”