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…