A new semester in Santa Cruz

It's September so of course all the new cute little new
freshman girls are in town again. They always come
this way. Young, innocent, and dressed like they don't
fit in. The latest styles, the latest clothes,
desperately trying to look cool
Dressed a little like
me, but then I don't think I'll ever fit in.

The best part of December is that mad halfway point
when they realize they can wear what they want here
and they've smoked pot, gotten drunk, had sex and god
knows what else, their parents sure as hell don't
anyway.

But they think they're adult now and walk different
and wear hemp and sometimes somewhere a tattoo or
piercing shows proudly. Of course it's only expected to
be hidden when they go home for Christmas, away from
these drugs, this ocean, and this craziness.

In June their hair is in dreads or cut off and some
have boyfriends, or girlfriends, or both, or none. The
drunken sea air, the drugged out downtown streetkids
and easy access to everything in excess and everything
that their parents have kept them from has fully
influenced them and they are changed.


Sexuality in leaving

The simplicity of the beginning always fascinated me.
It seems to me everything begins simply.

I was leaving and as much as this was an end it was a
beginning as well. Crazy and stupid I thought, but
that's just the way I was right then anyway. For
example, I noticed, the sexuality of leaving, well no,
that's not it. The sexuality of my door, my entrance,
my house, me.

It stands forbearing, harsh, a constant burden. When
it's shut my life is locked safely away, out of sight.
But peel away that layer, that door, those clothes and
my whole world stand open for everyone to see. I'm
exposed, naked and scared and spread out for prying
eyes to scrutinize my mess.

My dirty dishes, my scars.
My laundry, my wrinkles.
Dust in the corners and on the shelves, my sweat
covering my nervous body.
The house smell, my stink.
The windows, my eyes.

You know it goes on and on and I get lost in my crazy
mind. I've been alone too long maybe. I know that's the
case. I know it as I'm leaving and I watch the key
slide so smooth and slow and stiff into the cool soft
doorknob. I can't help but get turned on. I'm a dirty
guy I guess, but it slides in so smooth and gently
clicked and rocked, stiff and pierced the doorknob
gently, turning further and further, and this was it,
an anticipation of a climax, at any moment it would
click and lock, but more and more it turned, hard and
strong I could feel it as it knocked the tumblers just
right, everything falling into place, until finally it
locked, withdrew and lay spent and useless in my
sweaty palm.


Books and Streets and Santa Cruz

And I walked into one of those crazy modern bookstores
where you feel like you can't touch shit. I'm a dirty
bum in those places, and besides they never really
have anything in there anyway except for three hundred
copies of the DaVinci Code. Anything marketable.
Writers turning out crap as fast as they can like they
live on linguistic laxatives. I watch as all the
trendy cool kids flip through the latest Crighton,
Roberts and King and some sick part of me wishes I
could just turn out all those books like that. Fucking
machines I swear.

And outside the Jesus freaks have set up their
nightly, we love Jesus and we're better than you
booth, and tell the rest of us we're going to hell.
Some girls walk by proudly hand in hand and
desperately in love despite the evil eye from the ones
that that turn the other cheek and love everyone and I
feel myself hating and feeling sorry for those poor
fools behind the desk of pamphlets and bibles.

They desperately seek some sort of acceptance
somewhere and find it here and turn their backs on the
rest. But I walked by not really caring anyway, I
mean, not really. The first cute hippy girl walks by
and they're forgotten and I continue on the one street
downtown.



© Patrick Sweeney