eight ball

In Malibu
a boy walks along like an acceptance letter
his prepaid scroll of a future unfurling before me
I can see his goals tucked into his jeans and I want
to tell him, don't worry, when you look like that
the answer is already yes

moving on
Does this shirtless hippie even notice the shopping center
built around him, with him as the centerpiece and all the
straightened people all going to lunch at a time too standardized
for the era and that they all eat bowls like he used to I wonder if
he feels like he was right all along and doesn't notice the way everyone's
clothes fit suspiciously close to their bodies

I decided I probably cry more than him but why

there's three white people without houses I assume drinking beer outside
and Benj says, if you're homeless it's essentially just illegal to drink
I think about all the ways I've been asleep

This mushroom skillet, tastes not burnt, not smoky, but like fire itself I order tea
and move away from thinking but one final real eyes observation is that every building
in this canyon isn't here until there is a wedding themed-out shells of places and I feel
like a school night every time I come to the beach, in a greedy speech I compare lowly day trips
to window shopping as if sleeping somewhere is like buying it but also I am buying this
this theory

I apologize to the bartender for ordering tea and sharing the skillet

I think being straight is the breath we hold when holding hands we walk past a man in a neatly
ripped t-shirt and untiable shoes and he and I meet eyes like we have to for some reason even
though I would drive 100 miles to get away from him and his solar-powered outfit. His better half is painting tote bags gold on a picnic table. Many mysteries remain.