H.L. Mencken makes the point that, "honor appears in the Declaration of Independence,

but it seems to have got there rather by accident than by design.

     [ source : www.wikipedia.com ]

It was X that considered everything under control, and it was X that most interested my senses to being a healthier pile of organisms.

His name is not Patrick. That is all the name that I feel is needed to name.

X killed the idea of idealism for emotive sake. It was understood that keeping up with the rigorous demands of communal life, in a 21^st Century megalopolis, meant the necessity of learning to fly gasoline powered automobiles. X always dialed his land line phone with voice activation, even the digital numbers, and especially while driving in the car when on the open channel. It was X who taught me how to turn the rotary telephone in his apartment.

That was the easy part.

After so long, it was easy to stay out of trouble and get lost in the waves of human breath. Everywhere on our shoulders, we carried escape plans mounted to our skulls. X had always insisted there be proper food and water, and at least one minor grade, thoroughly functional, little, red fire extinguisher under the front seat of the Cadillac. X choose not to fly more often than not. He liked the way the ground felt skimming the surface of Sepulveda [ the longest municipal street in the world ] ; he preferred the deep cur-kunk when the giant tires of the vehicle rebounded the potholes of the 5 ― X, in addition, always made sure proper tools were securely fastened into the trunk space should the event of a blowout occur. X came to party.

My part is that I need to find a way to explain the events that took place on the morning of my Los Angeles death. Here, X was not in the picture. Instead, brief, sunlit glimpses :

The palm tree invading the second story window of the loft where I slept; a fishing bag kit used for art projects that never found a mark on San Diego beaches; and ceiling high paintings of what it meant not to look too highly on yourself in the gated community island of the “city.” It was gracious trying to breathe in all that smoke and remain alive at sea level with the beautiful people on Western boulevard.

I tiptoed, naked all morning, around the floorboards of the two rooms across the hall from X's apartment, and immersed myself enthusiastically in the claw footed tub of the washroom. A clear, blue sky, and lightning struck anyway. A crashing light bulb of an idea that demanded I leave my person took place. The green light at the end of the street block pulsated and blinked. Imagine that : a winking, green light. What could it mean?

My idea is is that we might use our ideas gracefully aware.

I ate breakfast, washed the linen, and reclined on the porch outside to watch the dogs run up the alleyways and chase off the creepers and the horse-sized cats. The building became crystal quiet. Lighting struck the neighborhood with ecstatic, blue tinted bolts. There was no sound. I say again : silence.

Sitting there, as I was, deafened by the show, small explosions began to puff stonily from the rooftops and the gray, steel television transducers popped and crackled before my eyes. In the distance, a great pyramid began to glint from off the sun and was birthed, shaking the ground as it rose upward. The circling jet planes of the airport continued, unscathed and twinkling; laborious motioned floating whales swam like slugs through the orange colored sky.

“Look,” X said, “The biplanes are for the riche; the airliners for the ‘lucky if they’re first class.'" He had appeared suddenly below in the blackened, asphalt parking lot. "It's the old that create longevity for the young like you...”

“I thought you’d went to the valley,” I offered, stunned. “Where is your car?” I was not aware, at all, of my slumber.

“That concern is not why I am here, now. Look : there are ways to enter and there are ways to exit by virtue of industrious progress.” X ascended the staircase to the raised patio where I lounged. He caressed each plant with his long, pink fingertips. There stationed on every other tier of the incline were his Spring's harvest of herbs and flowers.

He said : “Can you hear me getting ready to leave this place again,” and vanished.

Snapping to, the sun had set at just the same off-pattern that it had each day of that summer. The cars began to hurl themselves speedily through the alley, and I could hear the streets cascading return. Dogs began to howl. They reminded me of the few dogs that were allowed to thrive inside the San Fransisco city limit. It was then that I realized my body not shaded from the ultraviolet rays of the Pacific and that I had lost an entire afternoon to a Compton clinic's Alprazolam. A doctor never saw me, but the psychiatrist had phoned in a session to the mobile and even called the prescription ahead to our local corner pharmacy.

 [ That was the great thing about Los Angeles : so many corners. ] 

For a short time after, on the Inglewood side of Western Boulevard, X and I wrote brackets on the rooftops above our rooms, and left messages for those killed in the riots by way of dog collars and the big, black messenger dogs wearing leather studded leashes.

It was summer. Another season to die. It was all I could do to keep X from killing every Falstaff he could possibly endeavor to dream and assinate. X was more interested in living and not dying too soon. What mattered most was that we were invisible, like everyone else. The difference was was that we could see the language of the metropolis, and were never allowed to touch its skin.