Brautigan and I just left Vesuvios and stood leaning against the building positioning City Lights as a wind break. It was a convenient structure for blocking the wind.
Hey, how do you come up with your material” I asked.
“Your poems where do they come from?”
“Dunno” He said.
With his pea coat collar pulled up and leftover beer clinging to his mustache, he squinted and pointed to the street.
“See that man over there? With his hat on he’s five inches taller than the taxicab.”
“What, that guy doesn’t have a hat on.”
“Hmm.” He began carefully kicking a small pile of cigarette butts.
“Look how ugly these are.” He said.
I lit a cigarette and it started to rain in California. We watched the rain gently trickle down the alley wall and drip in haiku patterns without titles ending in small pools.
“Hey man, have you ever been trout fishing?”