DRAWINGS ON THE POMONA FREEWAY

Sam has a short brittle laugh. A dull black spaceship over Del Rey. Government films capturing the actual take-off of a UFO. A yellow-white star—stone villages full of invisible natives—thick flesh-like fruit—mobile carnivorous plants—land octopi—stellar travel and aptitude tests. Memory loss at Mandeville Canyon. Lovely red stars above Gallery Row. Sam inhales brandy from a brandy balloon—watching a game show on the television—lounging on the sofa—taking a massive gulp of alcohol and air—grabbing the remote to turn up the volume on the news report. I sit upright as the television blares—an intense noise. Teenage boys walking along the Long Beach Freeway. Government farms with strange humanoid guards. Sam tells us we will have a joyless future together. I wear stale clothes—this unmistakable odour—a police helicopter over Historic Core. A limpid morning on the sun deck. Sam tanning himself. A human guinea-pig inside a huge plastic dome. Sam’s white hair—the cold sky—the black heavens above Los Angeles. Tombs beneath Mar Vista. Sam wears a white smock. He sits behind a black plastic desk. My skin smells of strong antiseptic. Manslaughter throughout I undergo examination—an inspection of abnormal vision. The blue-shadow folds of silent bodies—rows of steel beams—wide doors—cold stars—Sam wears a light-weight tan overcoat. Hair tufts hacksawed as ancient superstition. Murky light over humanoid guard. Body on shiny black desktop—tattoo marks on body—I keep my mouth shut. Transparent walls inside the dormitory. City coroner sets up shop in an old warehouse. Grey beetles on the rain-shiny streets—cold concrete floors covered with white sheets. The continuous flow of water from the sewer drain—incinerators … and tombs. Uniformed men inside the guard room. Bleak grey eyes inside a blue tunic. Sam inside a stranger’s arms. His face shines. A man’s tongue stuck to their assailant’s wrists. Bedlam—I speak with a shrill hysterical voice. Heavy snow inside the sand dunes. Dead coyotes sniff centipede shit. Hot cybersex with a neurosurgeon … and I have a prescription for it. I am working with a truckdriver from Tallahassee. Your fragile body … your basketball shorts … black socks … Target t-shirt … teen homelessness. Sam stumbles. Strangler’s wrists and throat—furious animals prowl Playa del Rey. Black hair—Sam’s curious yellow-grey eyes—grey hair—blue eyes—green eyes—a brilliant surgeon with a pathological twist. Sam and I play a card game—whist—canasta—cribbage. The method in use that uses blood from the heart to drain the brain … and then it’s removed … and all our resources to survive in these dangerous waters are removed … but I’ve never known love like this. I wear my dinner jacket to the convenience store. The jacket is in immaculate condition. Alluvial deposits that remain in the sand dunes—burn. I attend some black-tie dinner. Sam with a long plastic chain—a metal collar—his veins throb—a powerful surge of adrenaline. A murky air throughout Little Armenia. The frigid whiteness of Sam’s skin tone. Heavy snow inside the sand dunes. Your lip bleeds. I open the firelock. It is July. Sam makes illustrations on the sports pages of the newspaper. Sam makes some violent moves—his dark eyes. I walk away. Ruins thrown into incinerators. Small explosions of people—temporary morgue on autodial. Monotonous roar above Porter Ranch. Sam full of jealous rage. He has a broad grin—supping down dark rum for brunch. Humanoid guards with fluorescent tattoo marks on their soapy flesh—foam rubber cushions attached to their heads. Dawn falls upon my chest. This is the conversation. Sam checks his coat pockets. Sam is a miserable development. I push off the bar … grab my backpack … to the gymnasium. Thin steel cables secured to Sam’s face. I cease all sensory communication … stuck in some small room … some outpost. Sam fucks the professor … an elderly man. Sam is by the waves … borne along by the waves … borne along by the water … borne along by the window. I sit up in bed and stare at the blank walls. Harsh violet streams—beetle-like robot trucks—a crazy throng of people and aliens inside Angelino Heights. A long ramp—a huge red sign—my eyes—huge pits of black firmament—gangplanks—airy cobwebs—concrete walls—fingers—Sam’s fingers—a warm beautiful face. Another morning with a glass of water—another cigarette—a cup of water. I am not in any way comfortable. I make myself invisible. I’m on the floor—naked—with my hands tied behind my back—my arms tied behind my back. Sam steps out from behind the couch and takes hold of my wrists—his fingers digging in and out of the straps. He is not naked. Sam’s square-cut shoulders—sooty eyelashes—long corridors beneath the surface of Chesterfield Square. Empty bunks in the sea vessels. The furious roar of the ocean. Artificial gravity inside Gramercy Park. I haven’t had any meals for 72 hours. I move forward—feeling my breath coming in through the closed window—and seeing the way Sam looks at me. I reach down and grab the front of his bathrobe. I do not speak—but I breathe in every word and I am breathing out every bit. Sam is a tall handsome man—plant life—a member of a quasi-intelligent species—a species from outer space—snaky tendrils and jointless arms—independent motion from man-like animals—no reasonable explanation for existence. The medicine cabinet. There’s a telephone number written in pencil on the inside of the door. My throat gets tight. I turn around. Sam takes a few steps … then I stop him … stop him from talking. The bed … the light of the dawn. I inhale again … and finally turn around and walked back to the house. Coveralls in the clothes locker. Sam silhouetted by the dim night lamp. The light of the dawn falls upon me once more. The light of the sun falls upon my body. A certain rhythm to Sam’s fucking. I am not the flesh of a corpse. I have become the only body in the medicine cabinet. There’s a telephone number written in pencil on the right side of my body. The first thing I see is a hungry man. He is an invisible person full of Chartreuse and Edgefield cigarettes—a perfect morning. Unfamiliar smells over the Flower District. A strange alien odour emits from the humanoid guard. Grey banks of nostrils—the strange scent of cold water—the thermal unit—some faint noise—an eerie flame. What is all this for? I look around—and a smile spreads across my face. I have never felt anything. A few days ago —it was nothing but empty places. Sam is empty—and I do not need him to be. I walk back into my room. I stare at the floor for no more than a second—but no reaction comes to my eyes. I sit down—I have lost myself. Slender metal cylinder slide onto Sam’s arm. His tattoo mark is a black light. Sam is inside a deep sleep—his warm little body—his strange alien scent.