moving. sweat and heat as bodies push and pull obtrusive objects up stairs meant for walking.

"i caint hear tha teevee"

we walked through the alley and i heard their heels clicking on the fractured slabs of asphalt.

heels.

their heels echoed into the open streets. good god all mighty. we walked down around the corner.

we walked in a group, close knit like the exodus.

the house we ended up at was mostly empty, devoid if people and conversations and whatever else drunks search for.

there was one, maybe two frat boys, standing drunk and useless in the backyard huddled around an empty beer keg.

we all agreed that this place is dying, it's caving in on itself like a fading supernova. there is nothing to do, nothing at all.

the kids are restless, the adults are restless. we walked restless with clenched fists and white knuckles, gritted teeth, aimlessly.

they might find what they're looking for, we might find it as well as we walked.

but we won't find it today, not now.

they're playing pool, billiards as some call it. they're playing with no

class or style.

they're playing without leather jackets and bad tee's.

they're playing with no heart at all.

pulled into nazareth

i think i reached some sort of zenith in my life. at the dinner table with two men in their sixties. both in far better health than most people half their age. they both wear suspenders, one black leather and the other tanned leather. the one across from me has a thick, husky georgian accent. the one next to me has the accent of the midwest, north midwest like you would hear in commercials for potatoes and various brewing companies. they are of dutch descent. they talk about visiting their respective families, that live far and away from southern california. i feel a tinge of nostalgia, although i try to keep it hidden since they're talking about places i have never been and will probably never go. they talk about camping, the mosquitos, the cowboys coffee, fire and brimstone, well not brimstone but coal. they argue about the chevrolet suburban and the ford bronco, the models from thirty years ago. they talk about first wives as they look contently at their current wives fixing coffee in the kitchenette. they both wear glasses. they adjust these glasses. occasionally they'll take off their glasses and wipe them carefully on their chambray and plaid shirts. they skim over the topic of jesus, as if they knew him way back when. one was a southern baptist and one was a lutheran. now they are neither. they laugh. they talk again about tents and tools and heavy netting. i nod, but i don't know much about any of these things. they wear levi's, not todays levi's but those heavy, worn in dungarees that men used to wear when they chopped down things and built other things. they get served pie by their wives. they get served coffee by their wives. one drinks it black, he says he wants to know the beans by taste. the other drinks it with cream. his coffee already has cream when he gets it. his wife put it in for him. she's a good woman he says contently. one says to me, this is my favorite you hear, my favorite. coffee and pie are his favorite. i imagine this is how men ended their meals long ago. i felt proud of myself for thinking this. i drank my coffee black as well. they talked more about camping and then talked about the service. one was an mp and was a grunt. they served far away. this is all they talk on the subject of war and ease into the subject of carpentry. one worked on his son's lake house recently. the other worked on his son's boat. these are the men who hold up the planet. they are atlas and atticus and andy griffith all at once. they laugh heartily and slap their bellies. they snap their suspenders. they drink coffee in it's various incarnations. they talk of camping once again, camping in a shrouded forest that people like me will only ever dream about.

i was feelin' about half past dead. i just need a place where i can lay my head.