Cracked out at Low Tide on Bresson's Beach

+_+_+
Today I played dead while an alleged cannibal made me sniff his fingers. 
Conjuring up bad broadcasts on Day One isn’t easy. 
Some feelings can only be found by accident. 
You’re too happy to be working. 
The director said your breathing was too wheezy.
Why do people need the actors (even the alleged cannibals) to smile, to be breezy? 
Cant they see how happy he is leasing his suffering, concocting ultra-convincing ways of
sneezing?

An actor is both a house and its tour guide,
How many rooms he shows you depends on
how well you can convince him
that your love is not just a dog bribe.

One thing they can never take from you,
no matter how strenuously you conjure
up your own congestion for their film
festival submission:

the 101 @ 46 miles per hr
The Man in Me La-La-Las
North past van Nuys
Exitlessly drinking in the medicine of lane 2
as Kanye syncs my life to the lyric,
“nothing better than a pretty, big forehead bitch”
And there she is; 
a true valley shawty with one hell of a forehead, 
walking West against the overpass,
Bribing me into the first real smile
of my otherwise fictional day.

Algorithmically improving my mood,
only to tank it.
Algorithmically into you,
destined to spank it.
Who can explain the Preponderance of Jo(h)ns in my life,
The Polish blonde?

See the stucco for the ocean
See the grey-blue possibilities
No More Stucco Conclusions.
He’s a poet, and a mean one at that
A Natural American Spirit
Nahhh he’s just another
Moleskine Molestee
if you ask me

Today on the beach
Past Los Angeles county line where my personality divorced itself for the first time
(Compounding my debt to seven million
Malibu afterlives),

The beach was hopefully deserted
And I was Cracked Out at Low Tide
Offering up my significantly uglier right side
To the colorless June sky

Exacting no vengeance,
Pocketing my hands like a simple, Bressonian Man.
Watching his own face
watch the sea
the mystery of simplicity
A man against the sea, or whatever
the poor bastard
decided to decree as his
sworn enemy that day.

He’ll tell you this: it ain’t pretty
He’ll actually tell you this.
+_+_