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stork daddy
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he would sometimes drive up to near la to pick up the weed. he used to like to take the drive late at night and go straight through, sleeping maybe two hours between the ride to and the ride back. it was always the same, stark night, with lights approaching like pearls strung out on the cobwebs of his misty bleary eyes - and then early morning with the same stretch of road over and over again with the same raven hopping across or flying across, left to right or right to left but always there. he would pass under overpasses where bats would circle out and then return to tight warm tumor clusters. the less sleep he had, the better. he loved that feeling of his eyes sinking, or crossing. he imagined careening off into one of the canyons, into an eighteen wheeler, and would it really even matter? so some people wouldn't get their weed and so he wouldn't return to those who love him or had a use for him. he thought about emotions and life a lot when he was tired. if you ever wanted to see how fragile they are, how fragile all of our kingdoms are, just deprive yourself of sleep. you could be told that the entire world depends on your staying awake one more hour, and at a certain point, you won't be able to do it. not sleeping, seeing how long you could drive on awake, was like testing the limits of your love. when did it disappear in the drowning heaviness behind your eyes, at the back of your skull. one moment the skyline was scenic, was the royal road back to your true love, and the other it was nightmarish, bombarding you with sudden bursts of alertness, and yet not enough to keep you in this world. nobody was as full of love, or peace, or anger, or any of it as they thought they were. the tired knew this.
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