Last weekend I went to this wedding in San Luis Obisbo, and I didn’t even get laid.
It’s a funny thing how at every wedding, from Spain to Timbucktu to Nome Alaska, it’s always basically theatre in the round. There’s a giant cake. Everybody ooos and Ahhs over the cake. They howl and jaw and scream and cry. They encircle.
Then, they have to eat the fucking cake.
The cake is passed around on little slivers of plastic.
And, nobody likes wedding cake except for diabetics and cockroaches. The cake is a poisoned sacrament. The cake is an improvised explosive device, set on a slow timer, triggered by decades, timed to rust.
—–
When the Spanish passed north through the low hills of Central California, they fucked and killed anything that swam, walked or crawled.
They did not notice the Dark Watchers.
Wind will pass
trees will bend
mindful, eternal, patient
spindle spooky spider legs will stretch
brimmed hats will awaken
darken
fields of wine grapes
and topple skyscrapers
