Standing stoned on a balcony at Stanford, prestige in the ivy climbing up the wall behind me and beneath the grates under my feet. A doorway, more like a window in its aspect, to the back of me, unlatched to allow a regaining of fraudulent residency by staying with the girlfriend’s friend.
Twelve thirty at night, doors wide open to design projects and three-day weekend whiskey drenched witticisms from the stiff upper lips of trust fund babies in such slack jaw surroundings as a forest. Huddled in, four people crowd
a single with the sounds of bootleg Downey Jr. blowing it as an all mumbles shade of the greatest detective, the one the Batman was modeled from, on computer flat screens before loft beds. They could afford to see it in theaters. Piracy indeed.
Laughing, thick without curves-girls in their earth tones stare curious out at the intruder, with just the right modicum of malice swirling in their sockets. Can’t help but sashay So Cal as possible with my hood on like a carjacker. Fuck, I don’t care. I’m just trying to get back to the room.
Got lost, like the Donners, looking for that set of impersonal digits: 1-O-5. Numbers that mean a piece of floor to borrow, thankful backaches and odd dreams that leave you ambivalent the next day about these people and the malaise that comes with money enough to have veganaise
as an option in the dining hall for a panini or a gourmet bacon maple log.
We need to go to the gym, be balls of motion. Kinetic energy charged like Gambit’s cards, explosive. We need water, the translucent azure of 70% of your body bottled, your new best friend. No more dillydallying with Mr. Pibb or Dr. Pepper. No more shilly-shallying with their bubbly countenances, their effervescence. We need rest, the sweet entombment of a pitch sleep. 8 glorious hours, unconscious and uncut, of rollicking, rolling, row-row-row-your-boat-lives that are but a dream-siestas. Like those of hombres slunk down covered in sombreros. We need to rape and pillage libraries barbarous. Double-fisting Fante and Vonnegut, chugging Plath not Plato while pounding down Ezra. We need to get out of debt with others and ourselves. Payoff the bottom feeders at the shallow end of the phone line. Extract our cancerous student loans from the marrow of our bones before they turn malignant. We need change, not as a platform but for a twenty. Shit, we need money. We need pro-active action, to get off our asses and just go, go, go ‘til we’re gone.