King Harvest
Driving the old silver Toyota. Broken window. Blankets to cover myself up during night drives up Topanga Canyon or the Hollywood Hills to the Valley.
Gallons of water in the clamped trunk for the thirsty broken radiator. And King Harvest will surely come on tape. The crackeling sound of the old tape and the blistering palmtrees in the wind. I can't forget what was, I can't ever forget what was. Can't forget my second home. The delighting naivite of West Coast folks, the refreshing superficialities that build and build until they accumulate in a big deep well.
This it is.
I can't get over it. 404. 101. 110. Sepulveda...the Massage Place and the Serbian Metro Diner in Culver City near the Jazz Life Music Restaurant with Caribbean food.
I probably never will. The taste of the Magnolia Trees in the meadow.
It's where I left my heart, where I grew up, where I loved to the moon and back.
...pretty soon the carneval at the edge of town...King Harvest will surely come.
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