To A Throne in Monterey, I say Goodbye

I stood on the runway we used to watch from the rooftop in
Lawn chairs. Where we ruled matchbox planes that grew
bigger with the flick of a finger. They used to rumble above us as we
laughed at the sulking shadows in windows, ignoring the cipher of flashing
red and blue farewell lights. Standing there on that concrete slab,
blinking at the intermittent singles, I tried to see that shingled throne,
but could only see the heroin sunsets of last week, the choppy
bay that teased us with enthralling gazes of Santa Cruz, tried to hear
the entrenching roots of steadfast friends, but
could only hear eerie fog horns that stretched across the grass,
the sassy seals, and dried out conversations
pressed against the creases of our minds. I tried to reach out and
halve myself between the tugging sides of both the coasts
and failed, eyes staling out in creeping Monterey fog. There was no Venus light,
no blinding moon or crashing waves. There was only Mercury,
poised and ready to go away. Businessmen
who stood there trying to network the shit out 5 am, talking my ear off
as if I cared about anything more than what I was about to leave. So
as we clinked up those stubborn boarding steps, I gave an empty
beer-handed cheer to a collapsing throne, to an amazing friend that I'll never forget,
to going back to a place I call my home. A place to look back at all of this and say:
"fuck, I miss Monterey so so so so so so goddamn much. I need to go back and
claim my place below the tawny clouds to save a personal modern day Rome"

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