the lights push their tiny twinkling mighty fists

through royal orange tinged ozone cloak

where in the northernmost cheek of Lady Angeles

Her court’s Hollywood sign summons the ghost

perhaps to enhance Her downtown hemline

where Her proud feet stomp down with fury

on the last remaining eyes.

on Lady Angeles’ head is the jeweled setting sun

caressing Her hillside fiery hair

to where Her jawline creates a blank mountain ridge

as we dive into Her haughty bosom

where we die and resurrect in divine light

out of nothing.

my Lady’s balmy metropolitan breath

puppeteers Her southernmost palm trees

as seen in past centuries by Her tawny Nephilim

kept in mad house storage

along Her Wilshire Boulevard

the miracle mile of all illusions

floating down the Vicodin corridors toward Lady’s womb in the Southeast

the mercenary birds of her entrance

strategize in unison on the stage of the moon

circling about a rain dance to the gods below Her river.

to the prophets of the ghetto cart

ascending to one of Her rooftop temples

in worship of ancient dark

in the age of paradox

in the industry of bootleg Immutable Light

bowing down to Her in the East

a facsimile of the Zeus’ and Poseidons’

dressed with man-hole crowns

virility that is hard to see in the shadows of the sky scraper overlords

who protect my Queen from extreme chess games

designed to lose Her head in the hills of Beverly.

Lady Angeles’ fortress nestled in the end of civilization

lies at Her feet in glory to Her beauty

only if i look inside of me