dear dan
at nineteen circa early 70’s a displaced island girl came back home to venice for a short visit questioning home deceived and wounded again by love and searching
still searching for the place and time that might settle and define her
as she walked her dog up brooks ave past the straight satans’ den
sandals crunching through the remains of broken beer bottles over trash-lined gutters– more trash than she remembered– you barreled out of a dealer’s front door and into the street
plowing straight into her bummed a smoke, chatted her up and convinced her that you needed a ride back over the hills to the valley was she game for an afternoon of adventure?
the pad might’ve been mom n ‘dad’s casa in the suburbs and the bedroom, that of a son old enough to know better yet too old or too fucked up to still be livin’ at home with the folks
the floor was hardwood the room trashed and her spine ached from the beating it received beneath you during your version of lovemaking the bedsheets on the rumpled bed were too filthy to be on or in and she was warned not to touch or read the scribbles on the lined paper amid the books crumbs and chaos
afterwards we stumbled, high as kites you opened the door of the family garage dragged out an old rusted-out chopper and after ten minutes of sputtering and smoking and the grinding of gears you wheeled it to the street, she hopped on the back of the old harley and onto the nearby ramp of the 405
to this day, that terrifying 125mph ride in the fast lane was her first and last ride on the back of a motorcycle her screams to slow down or stop disappeared into the wind as your whoops and hollers grew more maniacal by each passing minute her arms and shoulders numbed from clinging so tightly around that beer belly spilling over those funky jeans of yours yet you yelled and yelled and laid on it like you were happily speeding into death’s arms and a welcomed hell
the CHP who after miles and miles of chase finally got your attention asked if you had a deathwish your reply was, “why yes, officer, i do” to which he answered “well do it on your own time, not with the life of this girl hanging on for her dear life behind you, asshole”…
my brother /friend sent me a copy of your death notice via al a translated italian obit from europe where you LA poet/writers gained the bulk of your notoriety and fame
i have been blessed and cursed with these memories….an odd, unpretentious life wrong place at the right time right place at the wrong time…..slices of heaven and potential gateways to hell
farewell mister fante…you almost took me with you that day on the 405 heaven or hell..i hope the journey took
you whopping and hollering loudly toward the end
