Underneath the Fox Island bridge in Gig Harbor, Washington. This is the Puget Sound and the water is normally mild aside form violent churning tides and there are meditative moments to be spent on the shores of it, however rocky and inhospitable directly, some listened to music and wrote lyrics in notebooks at this location, others attempted to grow marijuana, this was just the place to go and disappear in plain sight, admire the graffiti on the walls that would soon be replaced with flat gray covering, and we went back in at night to ask a simple question, old spray cans so they wouldn't be traced, and now leaking the information, but hey, I wasn't the one, it was the narrator of the story. I love graffiti. the simple expression and the dying breed of people who believe it to be vandalism. But with the kind of murals people can make.. or the ancient high school graduating class of 89 or some past year, so far beyond my idea of perception, and it blows my mind, I can't think of life as it was in 1889. There is no fathoming that hysteria. This place was a solemn sacred sanctuary. To watch boats drift by. To smoke cigars with girls. Or hookah in the woods near cromwell. No worries there. A nice idea executed perfectly. We drove off victorious for random awesome moment of random inspiration. Used to listen to cars rumble overhead and coat boats driving underneath at lethal speed. climb down and hold hands the entire way. just for the fun of it. it was a place to sit and think with rocks to lay back on, listening to music harmlessly and with considerable notebooks and advantages, already thinking of the days ahead, lyrically speaking, and all of the impressions of a high school kid with ambitions and a fire in the pit of his stomach, burning away moments of inadequacy. nothing left to do but enjoy the summer as if it were the last of your life. the dry day captured above is something divine. no rain to ruin the tranquility of this moment forever captured in time. something forever remembered.
we slept under the stars
sleeping bags in the back yard
forest trails and their hidden mysteries
let our imaginations run wild
thought of all the beasts of night
lurking and snarling throughout
that dark and inviting place
under the canopy of tree branches
jumping into gathered snow
making our impressions as angels
soaking in a hot tub
given to us from a distant aunt
from winters frozen solid
becomes reclusive resort
from brown recluse
or something worse
rats or mice, gardener snakes,
something to bite the fingers
we pointed at shooting stars
we shared the sights and the words became farther and farther melting away into distant specks on a huge horizon
cross out the stars. we are here eternally.
