Every Day Drive

On the West Side,
Sunshine,
Windows down,
My arm glows,
It’s the warmest chill.
Oceanic breath on my face,
Brackish and sweet,
Through my hair, down my shirt.
Boardwalk,
Excited feet, excited eyes,
I stand at the edge and see infinity.
Blink once, blink twice,
Hold it.
I open my eyes and I’m on the 405 going North again.

Down in the Valley,
Stale heat,
A proper, inborn sauna.
Kids play,
The illusion of suburban bliss
Is needed in the mishmash of this major Manhattan.
Walk with me past,
The library, the theater, the retirement home,
You’ll smile, laugh, and sweat.
In or out?
Please don’t leave it to me,
Leave it to Beaver.
Blink once, blink twice,
Hold it.
I open my eyes and I’m on the 101 going South again.

Up Sunset Blvd,
Down Hollywood Blvd,
Signs, stores, silhouettes, stilettos, superman, and sex.
Flashing lights to the gaudy sights,
Gene Kelly would roll over if he knew,
Katharine Hep would exhume herself.
These concrete hands are dusty,
The paint on that cinema peels,
I watch as the silver-screen-streets meet bums, whores, and bloody feet.
After feeling this, tasting it, and touching,
Something enchants me:
I think it’s the veracity of what has been, and the autonomy of what could be.
Blink once, blink twice,
Hold it.
I open my eyes and I’m on the 110 going South again.

I stop.
You stop.
We stop.
Its 4:48 pm and we all know what that means.
Pop in a cd.
Blast the radio.
Roll those windows down.
Light a cigarette.
Turn up the volume.
Steer the wheel with your knees.
Turn up the volume some more.
Embrace the inevitable.
I Stop.
You stop.
We stop.

Downtown.
I’m fond of the towering giants,
And curious of what transpires in them.
There’s excitement for the game,
Anticipation for that band, that musician, that line up,
And the crowd’s expectancy floods my every pore.
Stop by Seven Grand,
Let the whiskey, scotch, or bourbon,
Ease your mind and soul.
There’s a history in this place,
A young one,
But what were you doing in 1781?
Blink once, blink twice,
Hold it.
I open my eyes and I’m on the 10 going West again.

I’ve got one last stop,
Bear with me, just hang tight.
I’m taking Mulholland Dr. in the middle of the night.
Winding through the hills,
Look to your left, after this bend, your right,
A sea of lights, illuminated lives, bright, dazzling souls.
From high above, this place is united,
So I steer with,
No destination, no agenda, just drive, drive, drive.
One last thought to cap my volume, the apex of my tome:
New York may be my one-night-stand,
But Dammit! This is home.
Blink once, blink twice,
Hold it.
I open my eyes and I’m home again.

I Whisper Goodbye

The butterflies and gnats don’t understand,
The birds can’t possibly comprehend,
The flowers and the sun all scorn me,
As I whisper goodbye for the last time.

The earth and the worms smile,
The ants dance, croon, and play in the grass.
I bark and rebuke them in my heart,
As I whisper goodbye for the last time.

I close my eyes and hear the wind,
I smell every memory we had and can’t have,
The crickets chirp, I think I hear your voice,
As I whisper goodbye for the last time.

A stream of tears, a torrent of hurt,
I see your face in a tree, and know your grin,
A part of me is torn, you’re ripped away,
As I whisper goodbye for the last time.

I dry my flooded eyes with the edge of my cuff,
While my fingers graze the dull, dark, gray box,
I vacantly reach out for one more moment with you.
Afraid to speak, I can only whisper.

I whisper…

“Goodbye.”

Los Angeles or The City of [Broken] Angels

Your city bleeds from a heart as black as my smoldering lungs.
Alone she weeps, she crawls, and babbles in foreign tongues.
Dragging herself with the hopes and dreams of innocent members reeling.
Near death but somehow still breathing, near gangrenous but always still feeling.

So here’s to her. Your city, your bride.
Down your shot and swallow your pride.
Take a drag and pray for life.
Breathe it out and twist the knife.

Truer words were never spoken,
That, in LA, the Angels are broken.

Your city smiles a frown with bulged, bloated lips quivering.
The skintight mask slowly droops, yet her clownish grin is unwavering.
Her façade has been shattered and fixed, brutally ravaged and mended.
The Lady has been destroyed and forgotten far longer than intended.

So here’s to her. Your city, your bride.
Pound your beer and swallow your pride.
Chief your grit and pray for life.
Breathe it out and twist the knife.

Truer words were never spoken,
That, in LA, the Angels are broken.

Your city cries out for help, for love she opens wide and screams.
Throat raw, hemorrhaging unfulfilled potential and hideously, shoddy dreams.
The rest of the world stares and laughs, she’s here for their sick delight.
She hopes that someday the clouds will clear and day will break through the night.

So here’s to her. Your city, your bride.
Finish your fifth and swallow your pride.
Crush your cig and pray for life.
Breathe it out and twist the knife.

Truer words were never spoken,
That, in LA, the Angels are broken.

In LA, the Angels are broken.

A Thousand Suburbs in Search of a City

Limbs stinging, blue, and sore.

Stench lingering,

An untamed, unnoticed passenger.

The earth beneath lengthy, unkempt fingernails,

Is a crusty, dog-eared manicure,

Worn with pride. Worn with abandon.

Moth and mice eaten clothes,

A uniform for the forgotten.

The invisible.

Dead to some.

A ghost to most.

The stars shine only for one: the light thief.

Sweet perfume,

Emanates and stings the senses.

Fake, false, all forged from an image,

Tainted beauty and distorted splendor.

Please, don’t stop and smell the poisonous flowers.

Fine fabrics and finer smiles,

Teeth too white. Eyes too bright.

Spotlight.

Steal the night.

Stole your light.

A red dot in a field of black.

All alone,

Hands and soul grasping.

A breath is nothing unless its heard,

A heart beat worth even less.

Lonely and tired, tired of being lonely.

The veins in your eyes,

Crimson, cruel, crooked strings.

The broken.

Know.

Be known.