oh, the regrets
I dream of insomnia. Green lightning over the Richmond oil refineries. I was cold and clutching a stack of punk 45s in the 7-Eleven parking lot. It's always midnight when you're dead. Or 3 a.m. in the searchlight fog of Alameda. My cheek found the palm of my hand in a diner at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. I had too much wine too late in a night rudely disrupted by a sunlit earth full of cell phones and self-absorption. I root for the alien invasion and the robot revolution. Go fuck yourself, Earthling. My people will get you.