about the shattered glass
that is my life
about the tiny shards
cutting into
Blade.
The City of Palms
I have taken for granted
the palm trees in Cali
brought in
from somewhere else
planted by Spanish missionaries
in the 18th century.
We have something
in common.
They don’t belong here.
And neither do I.
Yet they stand.
How will I?
On the taxi ride home
I think
about the things I should have said to him
and wonder if I’ll ever see her
again.
Maybe I’ve been crying too much
or thinking too much about drinking this bottle of Malibu
I took from Rutherford, but I don’t want to end up
like him,
especially since I’m not
his.
When we get to the bridge, for a split second I imagine
leaping over and falling to the bottom and never being found or heard from or seen again.
Would it matter if I were gone?
Who would care about this son of no one?
Change of plans, I say to the driver. Take me to Santa Monica, please.
Perspective
I watch Robert
hold a small
audience captive
with “Mean Old World,”
which ain’t nothing
but the truth
for me
right now.
I nod at him.
He smiles, and
after he’s done playing,
waves me over.
Where’s your other half? he asks.
I’m overwhelmed, Robert.
With gloom. She’s gone, like ashes over bridge.
He wipes down
his trumpet
and shakes
his head.
You weren’t ready for her or she wasn’t ready for you?
Her father wasn’t ready for us. He ended it.
Put yourself in his shoes, what would you have done?
I’d trust my kid to know what was good for her. It sucks.
Sorry, Youngblood.
There’s something else.
I know. Written all over your face.
I don’t even know how to say it.
Spoonful at a time.
Turns out, I’m adopted.
It’s like a freight train runnin’ up all through your life.
It sucks.
That’s one way of looking at it.
THAT’S THE ONLY WAY.
Some people don’t even get one parent, you got four.
Yeah, but two of ’em gave me away, one of ’em doesn’t care about me, and one of ’em’s dead.
If the blues was cash, you’d be the richest Youngblood in town, he says, laughing.
Not the time for jokes, Robert. This isn’t funny.
I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro once, he answers.
Huh?
Yep, with a friend. It took seven days.
Okay! Thanks for sharing.
Life is a mountain, Youngblood. Nobody said the climb was gonna be easy.
You gotta choose your route.
Get your gear.
Breathe.
Clear your mind.
And enjoy the journey.
Robert, what are you talking about?
Perhaps you need a break from the Angels. Get outta LA, get some perspective. You understand?
. . . .
Give her father some time, he might come around.
You think so?
The Creator has a master plan. Y’all were meant to be, you’ll be. Can’t nobody stop that.
. . . .
That’s a whopper of some news about your birth parents.
I feel for ya. I do know this, though. There’s a lot of love around you, but if you don’t see it, it’s not there. Go climb your mountain, see things from the top. Find out the answers you need, seek what’s really important.
Chapel. She’s what’s important.
If she’s meant to shine in your life, so be it, he says, hugging me, then handing me a guitar from out of nowhere, like we’re saying goodbye, and he’s been expecting this all along.
Let’s play one for the road, Youngblood.
I’ve known the rules
since I could smell the vodka
on his breath drown in its rancor.
I know, when it hits the fan, to: Avoid all stores with newsstands.
Don’t watch any entertainment shows, and stay away from social media because
your family
is a trending topic and the world laughs.
So I drive
the Sunset Strip in search of a guitar shop to buy a new strap and try to clear my head.
But there with a camera pointed like a gun to my face
is a paparazzo shouting,
How does it feel to know
you’re not the heir to rock and roll royalty?
It feels
like countless mirrors
crashing around me
in an empty space
where there’s
no way in
and no way out.
Day 1
I will never leave
this bedroom again.
I stare at the walls.
The ugly, empty space
imprisons me.
There is nothing
left for me
if she’s gone.
A bare, unspoken
language that has
no words, no gestures—
a song
of sinking silence.
I’ve texted her
thirteen times.
All the Songs That Make Me Think of You
For What It’s Worth
Gold Dust Woman
You Shook Me All Night Long Tangled Up in Blue
Dreams I’ll Never See The Story in Your Eyes Oh! Darling
Wish You Were Here
Where the Streets Have No Name The Sky Is Falling
While My Guitar Gently Weeps Who’ll Stop the Rain?
Day 2
What is this blood coursing through my veins?
It’s not Morrison.
It’s a red river
of who the hell am I.
Yesterday I was the son of a narcissist,
but at least I knew . . .
Today it could be anyone of the seven-plus billion freaks and strangers who could give
two craps about me.
Why am I even here?
Eat your food.
Freakin’ A, Storm! COULD YOU PLEASE LEAVE ME
ALONE!
You must eat, she says, from the other side of the door.
. . . .
Your life may seem like a mystery right now, but you’re still here.
MYSTERY? TRY MISERY. I’M NOT FEEDING
THAT MONSTER.
Day 3
I open the door.
Grab the tray
of bread and pasta pushed against the wall.
The smell of goodness offends me.
Probably takeout, ’cause Storm can’t cook.
I remember Mom
taking me to
our favorite diner in Thousand Oaks for their homemade rolls and honey.
She called me her sweet boy, her precious one.
If she were here . . .
I could ask her why she used to say, You can’t live on bread and love alone.
But the real question is how can I possibly live without her?
How can any of us?
Dream Variation: Soul on Fire
The dining room is a field
of fire
and I dash
and thrash
my way
through the flames with a big, red spider with a dreadful face on my heels.
(It looks familiar, but I can’t tell.) Run, Mom whispers.
So I do
I run
I run away
I run away, fast, I run away, fast, toward I run away, fast, toward the end.
There’s an end.
And there’s my mother.
And If I can get to her everything will make sense.
I can breathe.
I’ll be saved.
But I never get to her, and right before my soul catches on fire
I wake up.
Funny
how your questions
never get answered
in dreams
like you’re a ghost
floating
and trapped
in your own mind.
Day 4
Who are they?
Why didn’t I matter enough
or at all?
How do you give up
on your own
flesh,
your own blood,
the bones you made?
How?
Storm knocks
like she’s pounding a drum.
You alive? Unlock the door.
I walk over to my dresser.