Los Angeles

how do the palm trees
snake themselves up,
unerring, so sure
of their path
from one source
to the other

this city is so sexy,
all manner of furry and warm
Manzanita and mugwort
shoved up
jammed in
any empty space
confusing presence
for life
suckulents, shopping carts, bums
blooming in all corners
you can smell them
before you see them

the palm trees don’t know
the stars are not above in this town,
they are below
teetering in ripped jeans
with green juiced veins

this city is so lonely
broken, but relaxed about it
I type this poem to the soundtrack
of LA, outside my window
in West Hollowood
the soft scratching
of sagebrush on my door
the soft clinking music
of glass by a man outside
trying to find what is necessary
before the trash guys come tomorrow

this city is so sexy and lonely
fertile and fetid
a slow dilation of cigarette smoke
blown by the sexiest girl
with no teeth you’ve ever seen.

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One thought on “Los Angeles

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