There is such a
thing as paradise.

Its not on any
of our maps.

They gave us space and
kept paradise a secret.

Its only spoken of
in the mystery schools.

Its the promise of paradise
that keeps
powerful men in line.

They populate paradise
with the dead and
the missing .

The promise of paradise
is only for those on the
side of the serpent.

Or those willing to raise their
young inverted.

I aimed the old car
south and
ran as many red
lights as my luck
would allow.

Kept my sunglasses
on as I
listened to Frusciante
singing
nothing but the
truth all through
the magic of
my radio.

Left the madness of
the city and
entered the
land where
atomic bombs
and peoples sanity
have both
been tested.

Desert roads
littered
with desert lies,
like oasis and
promises made
in Vegas.

I took a toot
off the side of
my hand like
I seen them do in
the movies.

Wasted the better
part of my stash
on this foolish
trick.

This ride I'm
taking is real.

On my way
I'll be looking for a
wild young girl
to roll my joints
and laugh at my
jokes.
Give my eyes
a place to rest in.

I'm looking for
a lovely from the
low side of town.
Whose spirit has
yet to be broken
and whose mind
isn't already
filled with their
lies.

Watched as the
California landscape
turned from
beaches and tropical
palms to
cactus taller than
most men
and dry forgotten
land that
most come to
die in.

From congested
freeways that hold
the drivers hostage.
To wide open
desert highways
where its safe to
drink straight from
the bottle without
that pestering public
servant there to
ruin your ride.

If I make it out of
this dam
desert alive
with my wallet
and my sanity still
intact.
I'll look back
at it all
as just another
memory.
And try
not to give
in to
ever going
back.

He
has to
drink
his
meals.
So, I
drink
mine
to.

I have
to
drown
his cells
in
nutrients.

I'm
trying
to
keep
someone
alive.

Can you
write
without the
drugs?

Create
without the
sadness?

Make
something
without
losing
it all first?

I probably
can but
we'll
never know.

The cruelest
of all things
is the short
amount of time
the Gods
have allowed us
to spend
with our pets.

Everyone needs a fan.
Some earn their living from fans.
Some despise them, yet still do the things that attracts them.

My city attracts fans.
They come from all over the Plain.
Their favorite writer lived and died here.

His wife still occupies the only home the writer ever owned.
He's buried in our local cemetery.
The headstone isn't fancy it bears his full name, his years on earth and some boxing gloves. Though all the stories I've ever heard said he always fought in the streets.
And two words.
"Don't Try".

Fans often leave beer cans, wine bottles, cigars and cigarettes, notes and printed copies of his work.
Which to me is all fine except when they decide to visit after hours and leave their messes behind.
If you come here seeking to catch a glimpse of his home and maybe even his wife. You will only see large old Sycamore trees and giant palm fronds that hide his home like a Gisha's silk fan across her face.

If you don't already know where it is good luck asking any of the locals.
San Pedros always been a rather ruff port town the place where sailors and ****** came to spend their money and test their skills.

They'll lead you all over, up and down streets similar to his with its Royal Palms lining each side of the block.
All poking their fronds towards the heavens a hundred feet above the L.A Harbor.

When you come here you will be welcomed with white California smiles but when you start asking questions about his ivy hidden classic Los Angeles Spanish style villa with its fruit trees and grape vines.
We'll first tell you to please be respectful which will only help convince you we are telling you the truth.
Before we write down directions sending you to the wrong place.

That's how Hank would've wanted it.

I've had a headache for the last 4 days.

I'm sitting in my room surrounded by mementos I keep meaning to throw away.

Everything I own is covered in dust, this way I can tell when its been touched.

My Cat lays dead in a card board box wrapped in her favorite blanket
while I sit here trying to get as high as I can before burying her in my front yard at midnight.

I have 5 hours until I have to drive over 100 miles before the sun rises all for $26.00 an hour.

Another friend died, a close friend, at one time he was my best friend.

I skipped the last 2 funerals and fought at the last one I went to.

Did I mention my Cat.
She saved my life once.
She was 18 years old and died in my arms.

I've had a headache for the last 4 days and I refuse to take any kind of pills.

I'm still alive but dead on the side you can't see.

I'll count the signs along the highway and pray for someone to hear me.

She invited me to dinner , I haven't gone anywhere but work and the liquor store in years.

I told her I missed her but asked her not to stay.