r e t r o s p e c t i v e

my letters to los angeles
are sleeping somewhere
in a lost and found...

i remember bits, pieces - like
someday, vermont avenue will no longer ebb
and flow w/ the pleading of my open palm...
all the same, the whole of it has gone,
it abandoned me (as i abandoned its city)
g o o d . r i d d a n c e .

i may, however, begin to miss things,
in fact, i'm doing it right now...
(i would feel guilty, but i'm tired)
     catching the last train to Long Beach
we made love behind a lighthouse,
i memorized his face when morning came,
the sewers smelled of fish and sex -
  i'd never felt so torn apart by scenery...

and the cool cement of north Hollywood
cruel in early hours, so compassionate at noon...
     sidelong glances (the lost art of Eye-Contacting)
from across a crowded thursday cafe...

i met a man called Johnny Hawaiian -
his face was covered in tattoos,
i spent the whole day hypnotized...
     a girlish youth cursed her mother in russian
while the parking patrol made its rounds...

Los Feliz - my love for you, it lingers...

i am here, making shadow-puppets on the wall
in honor of our sideshow suffering -
the twisted, happy season
         of our bastard romance...

if only the high way had hands
(we could hold them in public and
i wouldn't have to worry anymore)...