Excerpt from 'in the river running or choking on water and white bread.'

that day was spent of more kicking of the rocks and scouring of the parking lots and we walked along dusty lonely freeways that led around and through orchards orange and yellow and vibrant and wet and just so wonderful i wanted to travel the world. she spoke of mexico, i spoke of france, and we both agreed on new york: man what would that be like? we never thought we would know, but the symbolic beauty of it, its cities and towers and lights and people and one-dollar food–the whole lot of it, how amazing! i feared our romanticizing of such a mythical legend time and place but she assured me that there was nothing to hold back on anything–let some stupid fear keep us from experience? sure, yeah, she was right. and i took those heavy chains off. but we stopped some time through a dirt road, the dead end of a road, and some miles from the elementary school i had gone to, seemingly only to ponder.

this bluebird was yapping out to the misty cloudy day, cawing its worries and fears of another storm, of its babies, or family, or the flights they never took to florida–much warmer places–and maybe she was lonely. a single-feathered mom should not be expected to travel under such dire circumstances of a storm, even if it was the best option. how could you blame them for sticking around? to the tree? what if it was the only way they knew? what if it was the only place they flew? well, i didnt know or consider any of this when i grimaced hard and halted my feet to the sharp cries of trees around us.

sally asked me, why are your eyes pinching like that? while glued to my shivering shoulder, sides, and hands deep in long pockets.

i dont know. i guess i just cant stand the caw. that birds screeching my ears off.

well she might just be excited for the cool weather now? birds cant sweat in the heat, yknow.

i think shes trying to bother us.

no, no, never, they would never do that. theyre too busy doing busy bird things. why would they bother two people on the trail? its not her trail and she knows that.

well she should caw herself back to the egg.

now, thats not fair, phee. not at all. at least shes doing it.

doing it? doing what?

yeah, doing it. at least shes out doing it. living. doing something and being well enough to sing about it all loud and proud and unabashed–even if she is taking a rest just now. just singing.

living? living. am i not living?

you act like youre living, phee–i do too, maybe–but you never know. were all so comfortable. are you living, phee?

i looked down at my muddy walking shoes. my clothes, old and tired but efficient. and the woman taming my spaztic body while cool puffs of industrial smoke escaped my lungs like white sharp breath. and i thought i thought it through nice and well enough in that second. as well enough as i thought i could with the time given.

she repeated, are you, phee? are you living?

i said, yeah, with a heavy nod. yeah, yeah. im living.

are you trying to convince me? she said with sly smirk and eyebrow cocked and squint in her eye.

no, no. i see living. im–im sure of it.

i see you too and i dont see living…and i see me and i dont see living either. no earthquakes in…years. just going because the going is what we chose, i guess.

now youre just messing with me, girl.

her head fell back against my shoulder, fireplace feeling, and we continued on.

whenre you gonna play another show for me, phee? she said.

then my hand came free of its pocket cell and it stroked the back of my matted hair, im not sure about a show.

her head shook like ruffled feathers and she looked up at me, you not sure about a show? whats wrong with you? play a show for me, cmon phee, whatre you scared of?

no, no, im not scared–im not scared of anything–im just not sure anythings booked right now. we really do need to get back in the saddle, though. and as soon as possible. it has been a while.

oh you. how long youve been out of the saddle?

shit, i dont know, a month or so…

a month only, thats it?

no, im wrong. its only been a few days i think–a week, maybe?

is that still too long for you–you and your fellas?

for the things i want to do, yeah. yeah its far too long. ive been wasting time kicking rocks in parking lots and such things like that.

do you think youre wasting time with me, phee?

no, no, i dont think that, sally. im just trying to talk to myself--trying to remind myself theres work to do, yknow?

and are we living, phee?

i stopped in my tracks again. and then a more echoed call came from that bluebird some ways away. and then a clearer one from a murder of crows rushing off closer to the great going sky.

yeah, i assured the surrounding. yeah. look at us. were living. but all this questioning and all this road is starting to make me think that all this living constitutes to nothing–and that all these moments are just like all these moments and that all these moments exist in an unbothered and unmoving time. and that all these moments dont really need all that much thinking–and all these moments maybe dont really matter all that much anyway. is that good or bad? to realize that–or think that way?

i dont know.

i dont know, either.

when we looped back around the orchard and made our way back past the trail and through the untamed wet jungle mass of woods she danced. and she made me dance with her like kids back then and blissfully unaware of the truth we were. or the divorce or the insults or the looks we all got and the urchins we all awoke skipping through all that downtown where all that music played and all those early christmas bells jingled and all those clean coat bums moaned for a dollar a toothache. and we trotted we did all the way back down to her temporary motel with hands held tight and memories faded and new ones created and my lips on her neck and my nose in her hair and her breath in my mouth and her voice in my ear. the place was a real low-life addicts paradise. but its where we giggled our way through her door unlocked like giddy school children and slept in the same bed hurriedly without pants on, and closed our eyes slowly under the same covers, and laid there unabashed just like that bird and slept.

for hours–