Asleep & Dreaming In Watsonville

The narrator is getting too old for his gray beard and fights for it. He fought a gangster for cigarettes behind the overflowing dumpster of an old mini-mart, and he swung hard to smoke. He broke his knuckle and pushed him into the pile of shit. He stomped down on his broken face, cut open, and felt the iron taste of blood in his mouth. He almost got comfortable with the tearing bags and fluffy-like pillows. Eyelids got heavy, and he wish for a drink more than anything now.

The narrator wrestles with a corpse, wishing for a drink more than anything now. He wrestles with a corpse, saying "Jesus Christ." He exists. He hid away when he reached for the cigarettes. And he stayed under the covers as he lit one and smoked it next to the body of one of his sons. He has just killed a man. That is the truth.

Wrapping around the corner, the Indian counter clerk stood outside his store, eyes following him as he reached his truck. Although he hesitated, he asked why his wrist was bloody. The pale white of his veiny arms were stained dark with blood, and streams of it ran up his elbow, cut deep like lava into Earth's crust. The store door shut, and the keys to the phone were pressed. Three numbers: 911.

Inside the truck, door slammed, one turn, truck on, and off the lot. Onto the road, through the little fart of their downtown, and into the woodsy highway of a new day. The miners I met during my stay were all slumped into the same category—somewhat grumpy, a little overweight, and all great, tired, serious workers. They had offered me a job, but that wasn't the reason I came down. Just leaving the motel, I caught one I'd been having somewhat deep conversations with. He was eating a sandwich in the deli next door and nodded as I stumbled inside.

I asked my friend what he was doing, but he said nothing new. He was back behind the steering wheel, barreling down the road his, cold, pale skin, and melting off his face. He just killed a man. That was the truth.

Back in the dream, he said, I just killed a man. He never said that this happened after I just killed a man right now, today. None of this is real. I can't believe any of this. A big white bird flew over my windshield, and I coughed a black lung. I lit another cigarette and stepped on the gas. Soon, the police would be after me. A single stoplight came fast, and its red glaring beam caught my eye before I had a chance to step on the brakes. At once, I was free and let go, nothing behind me but trees.

The narrator is a homeless man who has been living in Watsonville, a city surrounded by mountains and wet forest. He has been a hitchhiker for the last five years, feeling lost and abandoned. One day, he is stopped by a sheriff's truck and is asked about his activities. The sheriff tells him he killed a man and that he doesn't remember what he is doing.

He asks if he could steal a box of free kittens from him. The narrator is unsure of what he is doing and decides to climb up a muddy hill in the dark. He is buried in the forest, surrounded by ghosts and apparitions. The next day, he wakes up and finds himself on the edge of a white freeway. He is greeted by a small black sedan and a small black sedan, but the truck doesn't start.