by Travis Truax Edgar Guerra There are things I have always meant to say that I will never get a chance to say again. This is obvious, like the urge to give up when you can. But I want to be more optimistic with my time. I want to churn the frothy waves of living with the frail leg-kicks of my trying. Does that seem worth it — to swim the breakwaters off Big Sur and wish the heart of Kerouac back into the world? It won’t do, simply wishing. I must stop to sing. The seal barks