NOVEMBER 2009

Because you asked me what are we doing and I didn't know what to say:

So we're standing on the overpass and it's cold. And we're shivering. Then we're not.
We're leaning on the guardrails and it's late. So late that it's early- 3 in the morning, and the funny stories aren't funny anymore. So you're talking serious and I'm laughing at you. So what. Now I'm looking straight at you and you're laughing at yourself. So what.

And so time stops, because the people in their cars can't see us, and then we're not there. We're not suspended over highway 84 anymore. We're just staring down at speeding cars, and staring down approaching cars. And they fly by on the exit ramp, the one that's five feet away from our empty overpass--covered in graffiti, pools of bottles, and broken light that is meant for the two ramps above us on which cars still drive. So what.

So we walk back, out of the light, off of the bridge. It's cold again. It's dark. Is the sun coming up? So what. Fuck the sun. Fuck tomorrow. So I kick a can all the way down the overgrown stretch of highway. And you don't say much. But the trees are short here, and we're on top of the hill. LIke we're above the tree-line, skiing somewhere. But we're not, and we're not there. Instead there are young, short, stunted trees, dragged down by vines. So what. So we can see the lights of the city 'cause of this, and we can see our breath. And you don't say much.

I ditch the can at the mountains of sand and gravel and we vault the guardrail and slide down the dirt slope. Back in the woods, we hop the chain link fence, and then we're walking out behind the shrine to the nameless saint. And the path is paved now, and other saints watch us pass now, but we don't stop to kneel. So what. I never got confirmed. And the monastery always looks eerie at night, with weird spotlights on weird statues, that all either look outdated or unfinished.

So what. Six overpasses over I-84. Six steel strings, like those on the guitar that the guy played at the Thai place. But crisscrossing like when you rip the skin off a baseball. And three of them don't go anywhere.