Fruit Orgy

water is invisible
so the color is

I ate dragonfruit while I was in the City.

We were driving down 13 and B was in the backseat gorging himself on an assortment of eclectic fruit purchased at the Berkeley Bowl. I pointed out that he might have trouble at the airport and he decided to eat it all, right there in the backseat, and he split the dragonfruit open with his keys.

“This smells like a rhubarb’s asshole,” he says. “Want to try some?”

We decide that dragonfruit is like the brains of a kiwi, because it’s grey in colour but identical in texture to a kiwi, seeds and all. It’s creamy and delicious.

“It’s a fruit orgy,” he cries joyously while peeling a lichi. “Will someone take my picture?”

at best or
to the final

Later, we go to Zen Springs, a spa in Oakland, for a tub. The internet is a fabulous place and so are all the spa listings in it. First we were on the wrong side of Broadway, and then finally we found the right street. (We were thinking Jackson and we wanted Jefferson.) As the four of us pulled up we glanced at each other nervously. Zen Springs is right outside the financial district, but it looks seedy and sketchy. Oh god, I think, what have I gotten us into?

We step inside to a tranquil oasis. Flawlessly decorated, clean, and beautiful. The man shows us all the rooms and we pick the largest one, with a sauna and tub. It’s called the Autumn room. Sprawled in the tub, we look up at the starry ceiling and then over at the “yoga platform” and start giggling uncontrollably.

Later, while I’m lying on the top shelf of the sauna maligning the sauna pussies outside the door, M fills a bucket with ice water, marches in, and pours it all over me.

The floor is cool and tiled.

form of anything
except that almost
everything is made

Later still I am lying upstairs doing battle with the memory foam while music leaks up from downstairs. I can see the stars from one window, and the lights of the Bay Bridge twinkling from another. Outside, a tree rustles in the growing breeze. Defeated, I wedge a pillow under my legs because the bed keeps sinking away under me.

of melon and shaped
like the ocean in
its shapeless lazy

Driving home in the small hours of the morning, Fort Bragg looks defeated and small, an empty sleeping town filled with dim streetlights and decaying businesses. Never before has it looked this woeful to me. As we drive past the Guest House I roll down the window and shout:


My voice echoes in the emptiness, the city clock glaring defiantly back at me. We turn onto Laurel and Headlands is lit up like a Christmas tree, like always, weighed down in the stillness of the night.

At home, I think about the lights of the City.

and always moving
moving perfection