what we found @ the beach today:

calf, gray whale-type
just a body -- long since expired.
i wonder how it happened.
the story...

and yep, it stunk.
and yep, the pooches went ape.
and yep, i swore i saw a fin flash above the waves nearby.

Ellroy and I @ Night

the night sky is clear -- street lights humming, bathing the boulevard yellow.

i can hear my breathing.

i can feel my chest rise and fall.

cigarette pursed between the teeth.

the dog is pulling, so i let Ellroy off the leash.

he gallops.

the little guy gets airborne and skids to a stop, sensing something.

looks back to me, like a beacon of safety/security.

so i go to him.

his eyes are big, black and wet.

pick him up, he clings.

literally -- paws curled on my shoulder.

nestles his face against mine.

it's grizzled right now.

haven't shaved in quite some time.

don't need to.

but it's grizzled and cold and numb and the smoke drifts up.

climbs my face and waters my eyes.

Ellory figets.

he licks.

nuzzles.

and i continue down the street, towards the mailbox.

netflix needs to be mailed.

but it's goddamn cold tonight.

nose froze, ears tingling, lips wet with chapstick.

Ellroy nuzzles again.

he's scared.

not sure why, but he's scared.

i'm really not sure.

maybe it's the emptiness of the street.

the asphalt glowing yellow, humming.

maybe that's it.

or the quiet.

it is very quiet tonight, spare the containers down at the docks.

they echo up along the coast, climbing the hill and we hear it.

ships setting sail to faraway ports -- horns blown twice, out the breakwater and over the horizon they go...

not even the ghetto bird is out tonight. no WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP overhead.

no spotlights ablaze among empty thouroufares.

it's just me and Ellroy.

walking.

just me and Ellory and I think I see someone out in the distance.

a dark figure, cutting across the street.

hunched and direct, going somwheres.

but he crosses, i loose him.

Ellroy nuzzles.

Ellroy licks.

I set him down and he just looks up at me.

Just sits his butt down and looks.

I ask him what's up.

his head cocks left, right.

maybe he understands, because he whines.

so I pick him up and we head out under the yellowed halogens, all alone -- the cars off at bars; shopping centers; work; who knows.

the people are gone.

maybe inside their homes.

with family.

friends.

i inhale deep.

hold it.

hold it.

and exhale.

Ellory and I keep walking towards the mailbox.

-- the night very cold. very empty.

San Pedro, California...

...has gone to shit. Literally. Crap everywhere.

Dog; Cat; Bird; and yes, even Homo Sapiens

Oh, and don't forget the dopers.

Please dear Jesus, do not forget to mention the dopers;

And ceritfied Felons;

Hot damn those Felons got swagger.

Kiddie-rapers too;

Attempted murderers;

we shunt forget the ubiquitous neighborhood drunk;

two tanked lovers;

and a partridge and a pear tree...

-- All residing on my block.

-- All stutter-stepping, drunk as skunks, emboldened.

And illiterate kids, smoking weed in the canyons, setting refuse ablaze behind my house.

It's as if the lone neighbor and I are besieged by a crumbling society on the edge of martial law.

The vampires creeping in, waiting for eternal dark.

A local tweaker parked his jalopy in the driveway today -- blocked the neighbor in.

So I went down, confrontation in my sights. 'Twas near midnight, but no avail.

Nobody answered.

Nobody gave a good goddamn.

Figure he and the tribe were in the nod, enjoying Big H.

Anyways, there's trouble brewing.

I can smell it.

Feel it.

Rumblings of Nasiriyah -- just before we rolled in, the sky gray and quiet.

Wet.

Men, Women, Children, peeking from windows -- confused, scared, just wanting it to go away.

"Go away...go away...go away" (sotto voce).

Folks who wax poetically about good ole' Pedro, might want to visit good ole' Pedro once in a while.

Just on a random day.

Alone.

Alone on the many streets below Western Ave, where the peasants and prisoners spread out like water on litmus paper -- metastasizing rapidly, leaving broken windows, abandoned cars, semen-filled magnums ripped off with wanton abandon -- pooches nearly noshing the aforementioned 'nad nectar.

it's an eerie sight, dear readers.

as if the men, women, children are peeking, lurking behind computers screens, hoping to dear God,

the Outside doesn't come Inside

@ least not now.

@ least not yet.

I know there's better...

people;

places;

faces;

and pooches (the San Pedro pit bulls -- chained and frothing against chain-linked fences. Blue-eyed beasts with vacant eyes -- a bizarre mirror -- sociopathic owners bestowing prison pathos to their beloved curs and kids).

But I know...I have visited. There's still good country out there.

America.

long unbroken vistas -- a house there, horse corral here, shooting range snugged up against a granite mountain.

-- smiling and humble.

But not here -- no, no, no, not California.

Give it to Calderon, I say.

We're just visiting Sir, like most Angelinos.

Waiting, saving, and hoping for the best.

Nevertheless, I'll state it now -- get it documented and such.

one of us will be hurt.

December 31, 2011

0121.

Not sure who, but one of us.

me, her, the pooches.

LAPD Harbor Division knows about the stolen USMC flag.

the petty crime and disjointed derelicts.

tettering on the edge, waiting for opportunity.

"Such a shame," the Police Officer said. "People will steal anything nowadays."

"Yes," I said. "They will."

There was a slight pause, an exhale.

And I hung up.

light blue and lavender

outside.

yesterday.

here in San Pedro, CA.

took Ellroy on a walk.

soon as i stepped out in the world, my pulse slowed.

lowered, because everything was draped in light blue and lavender.

and it made Rancho San Pedro look like a town, instead of a run-down borough of Los Angeles.

everything looked so...nice.

the graffiti; the low-riders; the well-muscled curs.

even Annika's vanilla latte from coffee bean, left on the corner like some styrofoam obelisk.

(wishing she was there by my side.)

(wishing i could look into those eyes.)

nevertheless, we; Ellroy and I, walked a new path.

down towards the harbor -- aesthetics calling.

the pooch pulling.

Mandia on cruise control -- taking it all in.

rounded a corner, past the ankle-biters.

the Tamale Man.

and a fettered pit bull sporting a sweater.

cute pup.

fangs -- foaming.

eyes -- bugging.

sweater -- soiled with blood and God knows what.

so up and around the block.

light blue and lavender gradually fading.

getting dark.

getting not so nice.

ominous, even.

fortunately the compound in sight.

Marine Corps flag draped and faded.

lawn green, green.

and a pulverized privy languishing nearby.

but hey i can't complain.

80 degrees today.

dead o' winter.

and her by my side...

why, it sure is late...

real late.

zero dark-thirty.

4am, sun rise.

clem, rooster-type -- crowed like a champ.

ellroy, pooch-type -- growled back.

now it is quiet. little fan oscillating, just humming.

smoke gathers @ the ceiling.

a bank of fog rolls in off the water.

thick fog.

heavy, moist.

and you can hear the tankers offload their goods.

sometimes a big ole container falls.

BOOM!

i can hear that too.

pin it on some longshoreman.

midnight hotbox on the docks.

can't blame 'em -- they work their asses off.

get smooshed;

slashed;

lumbar hurting and it's time to drive a UTR.

but now it is quiet.

reminds me of the road; clammed up and silent.

doing everything you can to keep awake along those long expanses.

asphalt and a yellow line.

especially @ dark -- it can get interesting.

nodding off all by your lonesome.

pull off and walk into the chaparral -- step into the wild.

keep your eyes peeled for diamondbacks and mojave greens

mojave greens are the worst.

crotalus scutulatus

-- born without rattles and warnings.

and the camps which dot these large expanses.

forget the name, but they're all the same. real cheap and nobody bothers you.

-- my kinda place.

gotta find a spot in the back.

spot where me and Ellroy can do our business.

me: write.

ellroy: dig.

in the back, where it's quiet.

btw, found these great pix @ san pedro daily photo.

ellroy # 4

few days ago @ japs cove, ellroy sloshed through the tide pools. pooch slept real good that night...

occurrence @ dusk

i was going to stop.

this lady -- a young lady. dark jeans and fitted shirt. ponytail.

she was on the corner of 1st St.

a busy street.

cars ZOOMING.

sending up asphalt. tearing up the hill past mestizos -- five to a room.

and then longshoreman -- white houses with white stucco.

tomato plants and pit bulls in the backyard.

"JOEY!"

and

"JOHNNY!"

and

"PAULIE!"

but this girl/lady/mother/daughter was standing on the corner of a busy street with a look of sheer terror.

just standing.

hands and fingers like tentacles -- consuming her face. digging deep into her cheeks.

she was looking across the street. gaze directed towards the laundromat.

or maybe the video store.

at a distance you couldn't tell.

it was dusk. but up close -- as i passed -- you saw her red eyes.

swollen eyes.

distressed.

fear.

fear directed across the street.

it happened fast -- i scanned the area.

fast.

nothing. just life among the peasants as usual.

guy peddling bathtub cheese;

children pushing children in grocery carts;

a deserted gas station;

trash and black, black asphalt and dirty dust.

and this lady.

a young lady.

was standing out their on the corner of 1st.

she was gripped with fear.

but the light turned green.

and i was gonna stop.

but i didn't.

her dress was a skimpy piece of shit...

a whore would wear.

which is apt - because she was a whore...i think.

thing was, she was a San Pedro whore.

and i'd been told those uncivilized days of Pedro ended when Sailors moved to Diego.

nevertheless, she was a whore.

in my town.

wig; some retro-noir betty page thing.

red, red lipstick across her grill.

the dress...

pupils - dilated, red-veined, milky.

moreover - "Tina For-free-ah" ('s what the bartender called her) seemed like an interesting broad.

born in hawaii, fished w/Jacques Cousteau, odd jobs here/there,

eventually leading to a "dancing," gig on the mainland.

but something was wrong.

on that night - years ago - 6th st., near the ocean, tankers drifting, longies yelling.

this image of a woman, sat next to me and my pal.

naive little kids we were; never thought twice about her Adam's Apple.

or the 5 o'clock shadow.

- seen Bukowski's ex-wife sporting a Fu-Manchu once.

so we shot the shit for a bit - she, "Tina For-free-ah" - nursed her brew.

we, christoff and johnboy - drank mucho - not tasting a thing.

ended up driving her home.

could see the Vincent Thomas Bridge off my starboard - lit blue.

"studio apartment," she said. opened the door and "Tina For-free-ah" stepped out - balancing awkward on heels.

several cars cruised by as she mulled about outside - adjusting her bra, cracking her neck, stretching the hamies, smoking a Camel Light.

last one before the sandman called.

bad habit picked up on the Calypso, she said.

so we drove off.

around the bridge and it's blue, blue lights.

standard operating procedure

it's beautiful outside.

here in San Pedro, CA.

on the outskirts of Los Angeles.

and the sun.

surf.

stiff breeze keeping flies @ bay.

today's gonna be a marathon of bad grammar.

script - nearly finished w/the first act. running long.

BUT I GOTTA GET OUT.

out of this house and feel the sun on my face. get that vitamin D stimulated.

so i did.

down Pacific Ave., all the way up to the lights.

and Sunken City.

where i sat for a good long time. right on the precipice; a slab of concrete tagged up by crumb-crushers. some broken glass.

half-dozen palm trees growing outa cracks, splitting slag.

it was real nice.

real post-apocalyptic-type of nice.

i splayed out, arms wide, took a nap.

couple minutes @ most, but it helped.

i left.

sparked a Punch and kicked the Corolla into gear.

back home, paged through some old notes and started up.

S.O.P.

'write the truest sentence you know."

-Earnest Hemingway

-yeah, i qouted Hemingway...

cat butt tat

think i've seen this guy roaming the streets of downtown san pedro...

 

more bad tattoos? 

click here

D-Day

D-Day and i think those men who died 65 years ago would've liked to walk on a beach with a pretty girl. 

because i think we thought alike.

because most of the old timers i've spoken with enjoy the simple pleasures in life. 

a warm summer day;

the waves rolling in, filling the tide pools;

a maritime museum;

a pull from a cigar;

and a breeze - stiff but impartial.

so that's what i did. 

abalone cove; sunken city; the korean bell; and some strays

it wasn't very warm. the fog rolled off the hills and met the ocean.

but that's alright, we'll still had some fun.

oh, and the cats.

strays.

little bastards - they don't need you at all...

one last exam

and i'm through. for this semester, at least. 

so i took a trip down to Sunken City, again. but the other side this time, and with a friend. it's a little polluted, a little raped, and a little dark - but i kinda enjoyed it. here's some pix.