skippin’ Rocks

It began with Bloody Mary in backend LAX saloon and was served with dirty totopos. They had fish on the menu, but the only thing I could smell was olives and the one-eyed creep next to me stuffing chicken fingers down his gullet and spinning around 4 times fast after the big touchdown; sure to make sure we all ate a whiff of win.

And Jazz! Win and jazz and heartburn in Los Ángeles on a Saturday afternoon after I left my love in Mexico; and also because Mary just made her way to the dance floor. 

I quickly took to a corner of the bar to creep on creeps some more. The place was full of ‘em and I had exactly 2 hours ’til Honolulu. So I sat and let word come on strong with a mad happy Paris quartet of April. 

I was home, back home in the stale old America of mall and my youth. A man eats lobster out of a plastic bag. A girl feeds boy flies on a fork. “Soda with a side of banana jam please ma’am”. Pajama pants. Lots of pajama pants and an Ecuadorian waitresses carrying stacks of red plastic plates leaking paper frills and love-letter French-fry crumbs wrapped in a look that says “tonight he’s gonna fuck me”. 

In all this excitement I stab myself with a totopo tip. Tears, and the feeling that it’s not all just a dream after all; despite my best efforts wrong orders and ankle tattoos always seem to show face.

Been here in LA for less than an hour and can already taste the tidepods, the washed over scent of stale lemony bathroom stall of mall. Guess that’s what you get when you live in a dust bowl. Up to your pits in polvo? Plain old sick? LA is sick. Is 1933 Oklahoma prairie. LA has cancer. LA is “don’t have a dam to give no more”. LA is “America don’t like learn”. LA is paint over rust. LA is an excess of glitter reflectants and gardeners and bloody socks. LA is Disneyland. 

But eventually all railroad dust sets and all beautiful crystals become nothing more than skippin’ rocks, no matter how much you smile. It’s not meant to not make much sense now, unless of course you want it too. It’s bloody hard to open up eyes in a black blizzard. But we Mexicans have a knack for ripe imagination; you don’t have to open your eyes to smell shit. 

Okay so the woman finally got her food, and I ate my last olive, and Leo is calling. Brb. 

…Well, Leo’s flight got delayed a day. Rather than cry I found myself another Mary and a nice, big, fat man in a motorized cart to pass the time. He wore a hat that said Vietnam vet. Mwah, deli.

Francis
Los Ángeles, October 2022