and tourists alike. Fuck it, man. I EARNED this seat in the fading afternoon sun. Out-waited that portly grocery store manager type over there. Yes... over there on the shattered fiberglass bench under the near-dead Dogwood tree that still - STILL - has that fucking plastic bag in it. I thought it would be gone by now; blown out of its knotty twisted prison and freed upon the dry swirling updrafts delivered as scheduled by the Santa Ana Climatic Moving Service. Perhaps when the bag works up the courage do disentangle and disappear, I too, will allow whatever furtive and fierce Manifest Destiny that so fucking obviously runs things around here to push me down the sharp-edged staircase...tumbling head-over and arms-askew and the change fell out of my pockets (Whoa! A $1 coin?) and the blurs got too painful to take and the spin-n-bounce progress made it clear that it was never going to be a comfortable ride. And my dainty spoon was left behind. And the big words from small people snapped off and spun away.