Thoughts at Piraat

It‘s our last night away when the fog lolls in off the bay, and with it comes a drizzle – the first rumor of rain since we had arrived some five days before. The last stop on our tour of the coast, trying to make the most; and here we are, side bar, corner of Sutton and Taylor, already paid for a pie and a pitcher. I let her finish her slice. 

Leaning back, relaxed, I unfocus my eyes and think dangerous thoughts: thoughts only thought when they’re allowed to escape, to infiltrate an unburdened mind-scape. She and I — in our untethered state — prime real estate for such dangerous, such perilous thoughts to prowl about, to howl, to shout obscenities at Responsibility and Stability and Obligation all waiting impatiently a nation away. She sips her beer and I quit my reverie, kill my glass and ask:

“How do we go back?”

A bat cracks and the sleepers cheer the home team on blue screens with burgundy screams, while the dreamers think those dangerous thoughts of overthrowing the mediocre. We hatch plots to be reborn, to explore, to no longer ignore the untapped resources stored in our fingerprints. No longer machines programmed to please, but autonomous beings of melody and light, who delight in skylines and stops on road sides and lens flares passing through loblolly pines. And so we decide that she’ll sell her photos and I’ll shill my writing, and we’ll start riding up that nine percent incline from Golden Gate to Pearly Gate finish line.

“You wanna get moving?” she asks, thusly concluding our last supper in the upper peninsula.

We hit the street, wet feet, head in a cloud, (already four rounds in and searching for a whiskey fifth), (third of the trip), so we jog the crosswalk cuz down a block there’s a shop with inspiration on the shelves. A determined pace, and we skid into the place, lurching clerk taps his watch face, a grimace, a nod — an aloof dude. And we’re perusing eighty proof, (maybe something new?), crooning a tune about a babe tossed in a chimney flue. And oh, the clerk’s scowl, unimpressed with such a dramatic performance, (and our late appearance on his doorstep). Ready for bed, himself, though asleep on his feet and, man, he ain’t never seen dreamers like these: pausing time in 3x5’s, framing life in partial rhyme, (in assonance). Cue the romance — candle lit, sun-kissed bliss from here on in. Oh, how the wild thoughts thrash! Slap down the cash, scoop the hooch and scoot out stage right. 

Iridescent night, streets painted by lamp light and neon signs. Shrouded windows on high glow like UFOs hovering in the opaline sky. In a city all alone, two fish in a mist bowl  hardly recognizable in the glass we pass, waxing prophetic in jazz accents. We slow trek to the hotel, so I pop the bottle top to fuel the thoughts that ravage, that turn savage when left to their own devices. No surviving this attack, no going back to reality, not without casualties. Cuz the me I see, I glance, in storefront windows dies tomorrow when wheels touchdown in pale hometown. Slain by my own fist, a twist as I’ll plunge deep, and weep bitterly for reflection me. But that’s another day and dangerous thoughts will have their way on lustrous, rainbow eve and bare their teeth at anything that dares to harm. Oh vanguards of reflection me!

 Heel-toe through the lobby stumbling, mumbling something of a studio in San Mateo and Sausalito photo shoots, poem collections sold at farmers’ market booths. Elevator doors, paisley carpet floors, let’s open a store. Find our room, toss our shoes, need a name, custom picture frames. Close the blinds, cheese plates, chalk signs. Write a book, reading nook. Strip down, lights out, grand opening, city sounds. 

Slumber sounds.

Wheels touchdown in pale hometown.