“I am going to California”
I am going to California
I wrote down on a napkin at the Pier in Monterey. “You can’t go back and you can’t kill the memories.”
I was young once and I loved the sea, I loved highway one. I try to die in faraway wars and dear California saved me. The sea song made me dance with her. I suicide boarded the Winter storms and Alisa Fineman saved me with her kindness at Big Sur.
I saw a exquisite young woman at the poetry reading in the Spring of 1992. She eyed me and watched me like I was interesting prey. I went to her and I introduced myself. My name is Johnnie, poet want-to-be and soldier. She smiled, licked her lips and she whispered. My name is Annie. I love the want-to-be poets, make my blood boil with their tasty words.
She had long auburn hair and perfect hazel eyes. Her short dress allowed me to see her tanned legs and the sleeveless blouse. Tempted me with brown and tender skin. We wandered to the Monterey Bay and I read poetry to her till the morning birth. She was a student in Santa Cruz, going to be a nurse and save the world. We became one, we savior the days of late Spring and deep into the Summer. I remember we would stay nude and free till 3pm. She told me daily. Kiss me, like you miss me. Kiss me, like I’m the only one. Kiss me long, kiss me sweet.
Today I wrote on the bar napkin.
“Bye, bye love.
I loved you first, I will love you last.”
The taste of your skin,
the taste of your lips,
the softness of your hands upon my face,
Once sweet dreams turned to deadly nightmares.”
I walked down to the Pacific. I told the sea. “Dear Marcella. You taught me to be fearless in love, you taught me. Love was my weakness, you taught me. Enjoy the good days. We shall have very few.” I remember your last words to me.
“Sweet Poet, You are a soldier and I have my degree. You want the wild journeys and tropical places. You desire the journey and I want to do some good. You are the hurricane and I’m the peaceful river. When you decide to stop, I will be in Monterey. Waiting.
I came back 28 years later. Too late to find you dear Marcalla. My bleeding heart held silence and I whispered to the sea. Johnnie back in Monterey. The hurricane is a quiet storm now and I remember you. Do you remember me?