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Earthworm Envy relocates to a 1985 VW Westy
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When the sun slips below the Pacific and the landscape loses its definition, the stars are still hidden beneath twilight’s blanket, it’s time to check into the Bridge Street Inn.
The 110 year old Bridge Street Inn keeps the unique Central Coast vibe alive with its commitment to urban nature and the human spirit. When guests step onto the property the first thing they’ll notice are the gardens. Guests can enjoy the gardens while cooking up veggies from the local farmers market on the BBQ; watch the humming birds take in nectar from the drought tolerant flowers and succulents around the picnic table, relax in the comfy lawn chairs, or rock in the old-time porch swing framed by grape vines.
The human spirit can be as impressive as the Big Sur seashore or a fat elephant seal when guests from around the world start sharing their adventures and art in the common area. Guests can grab one of the two guitars and share music, introduce other guests to favorite new bands through Spotify and Pandora, share stories, play Scrabble, and get rowdy with a physical game of Categories at the circular dinner table.
The Bridge Street Inn’s common room has plenty of thoughtful entertainment, aka non TV fun. The library has a wide range of literature. An example of what a guest can find on the book shelf: Far Side cartoons, Federico Garcia Lorca poetry, The New Yorker magazine, and Revolution from Within by Gloria Steinem. I’m afraid to say it but yes, the BSI does have high speed internet for the guest who wants to sit in their room and quietly stream South Park.
The Bridge Street Inn provides a fully stocked kitchen to create a gourmet dinner with the produce you bought at the local grocery or farmers market. The kitchen has a guest refrigerator, filtered water, gas burning stove/oven, and an impressive seasoned cast iron collection. The cast iron collection has been pieced together from various garage and thrift stores from Idaho to California. The BSI has made a commitment not to poison it’s guests with perfluorooctanoic acid and C – 8 found in nonstick cookware.
The Bridge Street Inn is closed from 10:30 AM to 5 PM. We have the same attitude as most of our guests. We all came to the Central Coast to adventure and not to sit indoors. At 10:30 AM we tidy up the hostel. Once the hostel has a clean cozy feel to it we put away the cleaning supplies and turn into adventurers. You will find us catching waves, hiking Big Sur, bicycling the Highway 1 and working on art just like you.
your food doesn’t rot
your sperm doesn’t die
your eggs don’t spoil
your breasts won’t sag
your 85 year old medicated penis acts 21
and your smile never turns to sad
everything is not alright
always new beginnings
Everything always ending
this is the way
life’s supposed to
lets strip mine the mountains, lets burn the rain forest, lets dam the rivers, lets kill nature
LOVE OF COMFORT
lets kill 6 million, lets rule the world, lets burn books
LOVE OF FASCISM
lets make nuclear missiles, lets kill charlie, lets kill indians
LOVE OF CAPITALISM
lets destroy our body, lets break moms’ soul, lets overdose
LOVE OF DRUGS
lets pioneer gulf war syndrome, lets be chivalrous, lets kill Sadame
LOVE OF OIL
lets kill puppies, lets kill kitties, lets kill the unborn, lets build more rest homes
LOVE OF ME
Love is killing humanity
Love can’t get me home by 6 for you
Love can’t get me to draw a bath for you
Love can’t get me to buy a $2 rose for you
Love killed our relationship
because I love someone or something else
Love invented divorce
America loves new Sony TVs, iPads and iPhones
America loves new Chevys, Fords, and Chryslers
America loves Carnival Cruise Lines, United Airlines, and Circus Circus
America love Nordstroms, Macy’s, and Neimun Marcus
America loves the nonafordable
America loves credit
Love birthed inflation
Pharisees love of God killed Christ
Christians love of church is killing our perception of Christ
Love replaced spirituality with man made isms
Too much love makes the world go mad!!!!!!!!
Sometimes my thoughts
like a little kid who still
pee’s in his bed at age 12.
Whose sleep and dreams
are too peaceful
to be tossed away for protocol.
I’m an adult.
I still piss on myself
but in my head.
My mind mentally pisses
a stream of thought
into the toilet ears
I would rather piss
in a urine soaked bed
than be disturbed
by the dictates
of social norms.
and with her apology worded wash cloth
cleans up my mental mess.
I watch Leave it to Beaver.
I watch I Dream of Jeannie.
I watch a dead decade.
I pay for each syndication.
I listen to the Beatles.
I listen to the Doors.
I listen to a dead decade.
I pay for each new box set.
Pink Floyd, the Eagles, Page/Plant tickets
I want to relive a dead decade.
I pay top price for floor seating.
Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, John Lennon
make more money now off their dead decade.
I financially support a dead person.
The 90’s are passing me by.
This decade can’t die
leaving behind its little contribution of gay rights, Generation X, age of information and 90210.
How am I suppose to market my generation
with this 90’s rubbish?
I need a revolution, a dead politician, a Vietnam, psychedelic rock, and free love.
How am I going to steal my children’s money
with my blasé dead decade?
She’s almost beautiful,
Her touch hard but squeezable
With enough body friction
plastic becomes somewhat
malleable, feelable and almost
She’s a machine.
I’ll call her Veronica.
She trained me to be the lover that I am
like the Nintendo game that taught me to be Super Mario.
Veronica has 3 speeds:
slow, medium, and fast
powered by double D.
Before each practice
standing naked in front of a picture
dreamily looking at the ideal girl parts
I mentally prepare by chanting a mantra,
“Veronica’s love reservoir will not
vibrate me into premature ejaculated ecstasy.
I must learn to satisfy the woman
with multiple orgasms.”
Practice after practice
I finally prevail.
I can now wear down the vibration
before the vibration wears down me.
Like the video games that teach kids
to be efficient killers.
Veronica taught me to be a better lover.
I am now ready to point my mechanized sex pistol
at something real.
Veronica in the email you wrote about your anger
and our dysfunction.
The one’s and zero’s filtered through your computer,
others’ computers, and finally my computer
does not express who we are.
Printing your e-mail I see
what you learned in grade school.
What you forgot, Microsoft Word fills in the rest.
Our lives took on more than symbolism.
Please write me a letter.
I want to see how stable
your pen is in perfectly shaped sentences.
Then watch the words take on your madness
with each crossed out thought
and sloppy caricature.
Remember last winter when you went to get
the mail and the kids, Bob and Bev, locked the house door.
At first you tried knocking politely then smashed
the window pane to let yourself in.
I want to see your fingerprints’
images smudged in black ink.
Do you recall holding hands in bed
The comfortable silence between the two of us.
Not always having to
entertain with sex, booze, or conversation.
Only needing two books and touch to sustain
I want to smell and see where you are.
Take me to Denny’s with the odor of cigarette smoke
and coffee stained saturated paper.
Do you remember eating mozzarella cheese sticks
at 2:30AM after dancing?
I want to find the short black curly hair
that shows up in the oddest places.
To recall one last time the night in
Salt Lake City where we impregnated our
dreams into our heads and bodies that eventually
blossomed into who we were—man and wife.
If nothing else, a piece of DNA to show my friends
“this is you.”
I want to see a tear stain
where love use to be.
I want to hold as much of you
as I can one last time.
Promise me our relationship
was more to you
then ones and zeros.
The universe takes her happy vibes to my open heart
Internet carries her smile.
I get to see her white teeth.
Texts deliver her erotic thoughts.
We play together in our heads.
E-mail shows pictures of poetry.
Photographed words awaken our breath.
I’m falling in love
falling in love
with a woman I’d only had a week to hug.
The California draught has NOT been exacerbated by the few gardeners
who use potable water
to feed their spinach and arugula pizza toppings.
It’s people like me
the bank teller
data entry person
remove the chemical coat
of makeup, deodorants, and after shaves
with a long long long shower.
I rub myself down with,
“Avon so soft & sensual creamy body wash.”
All over my face I squirt,
“Yes to Cucumbers Gentle Milk Facial Cleanser.”
Then massage into my hair,
“Big Sexy Hair Marylin Monroe Limited Edition Volumizing Dry Shampoo.”
During my 9 to 5 work week. I sit in a chemically doused office.
My body never touches a sprinkle of grime or a pinch of dirt.
MY fingers never type so fast
to make my armpits give off a foul odor.
MY legs never so ardously
stand still behind a desk
to where my crotch becomes stinky.
MY eyes never laborously flicker
at such a rate in front of the monitor
that it makes my forehead perspire.
Corporate cubicle culture expects the worker b’s to smell like Target.
Middle management must smell like Macy’s.
I appreciate that Cambria has chosen to sacrifice the vegetable garden for those of us who need are bodies to smell like a recently deodorized hotel room
or detailed automobile.
These are my thoughts,