Seven hats on a hook except for the ones on the shelf in the closet. That's the biggest imposition in this beach side beat. Latin music stomps all night. A short man flies a kite outside in the street at this time of night? There's a seven-day old relationship in the next room. The tone of the chatter belies the novelty. When they talk, that is. But they don't talk about much. They don't need to. They're running on that libidinous excitement that constitutes new love, or is it lust? Judging by the previous night's moans, groans and guttural drones it could be anywhere in between. SWEET NOTHINGS. Yeah, that's what they talk. That connectedness that's made up more of warm breathwhisperssweetvoices than words. Yeah, that's when time stands still. When nothings become potent exchanges that send sensual waves over every moment washing away previous inhibitions. Spoken words become redundant for the tacit text, coming next again and again and again and again. She found a spot and dug harder. He winced out of a surprised delight. There it was. Just below her navel. Blue ink depicting Christ on the cross. But unlike the Catholic church's version this one totes an erect phallus, militantly upright and ready to rock n'roll. That was when he knew he had to love her. Three words, those three words. They spilt forth like a revived drowning man as he gasps that first h²o breath with the assistance of a CPR fist to the chest. So it was. A new love affair. And to think there was, at one point in our story, confusion as to whether it was that glorious, confusing, sought after emotion or merely salivating orifices and rigid protrusions. Either way, they're both four letter words.

All that remained of the Falcon's convertible top was the mangled frame that hugged the back seat interface. A piece of the vinyl cover flapped in the interstate wind. They were headed out of town. It didn't matter where. It didn't matter that they had no money. It didn't matter that they barely knew each other or that no one knew that they were leaving or that they had no change of clothes no toothbrushes no plans. what matters is that they were young and healthy and alive and that they weren't leaving the concept of adventure up to the books that they'd read. it was the open road, it was America and it was 1972. The fireworks from that night's episode of Love American Style had just exploded on the motel TV screen. I slid under the polyester blanket. Listening to the queasycorn humor, taking sweet slips of my neighbors homegrown, and imagining the visuals was much more stimulating than the simulated version coming through the quartz. Turn the channel to cbs and it all comes to a close. It seems our pal Richard Nixon has decided to hit all the buttons in a giggling flurry. obviously, Russia was button number one. it's gone, no longer. japan goes in approxamately 22 seconds, then cuba, then western europe, then us, the fucken usa, he's wiped out his own country and the command is irrevocable and it was good to be here but this is an official goodbye. thanksfor the goodtimes, thanks for chocolatemilkthanksforleonardcohenthanks forgoldensunsetsandlittlerascalsandfriendsandfamiliesandfoodandfulfillment-andthesmileswewearonourfaceseachday . . . atleastsomeofusthatis.oh, and please forward my mail to place of residence unknown.

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