
Jean-Michel where’d ya go

There is a certain look when one spends more than one hour at the Cecil. Particularly in the lobby, no matter if skin is young or old. There will be dust on it. Life is a cross between the Eastern Block and the Bowery, but glued together with 80’s crack.
I never made a connection of logic or philosophy. Politics never came to mind. The culture of the Cecil was that. Nothing carbon based escaped some kind of violence, for to not be anointed by even the pettiest mugging meant you were not part nor where you inoculated from the pain of not smelling the allegedly greener grasses of the other side. That was the hallucination.
For example, the spiders on the ceiling corners for the most part escaped a hungry bird or angry broom. While waiting to have under aged coffee with Spare Cock Amos, I could always count less than 7 legs on the spiders at any given day. I remember one husky Daddy Long Legs that had 5 legs and two stumps. He said it happened in the great Duster War of 1987. Nature’s hand was forced to mimic the image of the urban Eden. Miller did not exaggerate his nightmare.
Maybe it was just me. I picked up a very different perspective of the beauty ideal. I was fascinated by the prostitutes who at a certain age began to wear gym socks with their Payless high heels. Later on in the 80’s the fashion industry exalted the look as couture. Nothing is new under the Sun indeed. As my curiosity unfolded I began to ask the ladies why. The answer was usually the same. To hide track marks from their pimps. Up until then the word around my middle school campus was that you could only shoot up in the arm or snort. Who knew?
Dogs like people in particular had it pretty bad too. One eyed, three legged, limping, broken full of flies, ribs showing while lapping night’s old fried rice left behind by tourists. Chased away or chained to shopping carts to ward off any bad players. Now, their off spring live in lofts and wear protective dog gear, designer of course.
Life was stunted intellectually and emotionally for many. We either felt nothing or felt too much. We either felt numb or crippling rage. The point was that we were stuck. I say we because I was a witness, I had a home and a middle school to go to, but the Nickel had love. Los Feliz, not much. Either way there was a street pharmaceutical to help it. We either knew how to read, but became brain damaged or where never taught at all. Dogs had PETA and Bob Barker on their side. The people still wait for the upgrade. We the people can do it we are held accountable to our free will. Even as a punk kid I understood that freedom was nice, but useless if one had a broken spirit.
there is a certain look when one spends more than one hour at the Cecil particularly in the lobby no matter if skin is young or old there will be dust on it life is a cross between the Eastern Block and the Bowery but glued together with 80’s crack
i never made a connection of logic or philosophy politics never came to mind the culture of the Cecil was that nothing carbon based escaped some kind of violence for to not be anointed by even the pettiest mugging meant you were not part nor where you inoculated from the pain of not smelling the allegedly greener grasses of the other side that was the hallucination
for example the spiders on the ceiling corners for the most part escaped a hungry bird or angry broom while waiting to have under aged coffee with Spare Cock Amos i could always count less than 7 legs on the spiders at any given day i remember one husky Daddy Long Legs that had 5 legs and two stumps he said it happened in the great Duster War of 1987 Nature’s hand was forced to mimic the edict of the urban Eden Miller did not exaggerate his nightmare
maybe it was just me i picked up a very different perspective of the beauty ideal i was fascinated by the prostitutes who at a certain age began to wear gym socks with their Payless high heels later on in the 80’s the fashion industry exalted the look as couture nothing is new under the Sun indeed as my curiosity unfolded i began to ask the ladies why the answer was usually the same to hide track marks from their pimps up until then the word around my middle school campus was that you could only shoot up in the arm or snort who knew
dogs like people in particular had it pretty bad too one eyed three legged limping broken full of flies ribs showing while lapping night’s old fried rice left behind by tourists chased away or chained to shopping carts to ward off any bad players now their off spring live in lofts and wear protective dog gear designer of course
life was stunted intellectually and emotionally for many we either felt nothing or felt too much we either felt numb or crippling rage the point was that we were stuck i say we because i was a witness i had a home and a middle school to go to but the Nickel had love Los Feliz not much either way there was a street pharmaceutical to help it we either knew how to read but became brain damaged or were never taught at all dogs had PETA and Bob Barker on their side the people still wait for the upgrade we the people can do it we are held accountable to our free will even as a punk kid i understood that freedom was nice but useless if one had a broken spirit
time does not exist
walls beige frames colorless
scent not sweet stale
conditioned to 74 degrees
bed metal electric cold
fitted with buttons gauges
noise white with warnings
bleeps bings some hisses
faded aqua marine curtain
surrounds me wrists tied
down the hall polite
whispers then a wail
exploding through antiseptic hall
like Fourth of July
ceiling bland dusty vents
TV monitor spills lies
no music exists here
in and out they
come one after the
conversation bobs up and
down indecision open wide
my eyes now it
begins to lift the
fog how did i
to practise a kind of common sense now would it make a difference medication domination exaggeration death of what we used to be for good bad or indifferent what is it in the seed of them that twists them this way would i know if God instructed it have you ever screamed trapped on your own dream while the glass walls shattered in your castle beware it could be real this panic that i feel while getting pushed into the forest
as if to fall up from the
concrete cliff was so easy my night
terror often red she swallows me up
drinks me like water Venus the trapped
opens paths long to overly extended paper
planes and blocks on fire tumble over
us bursting upon an unassumingly frightening world
it starts like any other dream i’ve had since around age 11 with the Black Clergy and the Orthodox Cross of course Ivan the Terrible riding on a school bus horse in the diary for today there is written about John the Revelator who in my opinion had the dream to end all others forever more my phone screamed the LA County Emergency System warning safer at home lock down starts and the tranquil panic ensues can’t sleep the rapist may come blowing trumpets can’t eat boogey men come with sanitizer to wipe out my individuality can’t complain i’m doing great in contrast to so many of my brothers can’t stop thinking is this war Patmos makes me hungry in the soul talking to churches down the hall but we can’t help we are human no i say no no no sweaty panicked girl remember Big Bird and the age of innocence in limbo as the only romantic countries rage with the the horsemen double plus cut on the loose around the neck of Hemingway’s beloved
she’s here again vice grip on my chest black night horror demon waif starvation of my thoughts clawing on my floors thorns grow out of my eyes flames of peril dancing on all with illusions of lucid hell all the bottles in the world beg me to rescue them stuff my corpse with SOS written on sulfur stones of tortured paths throw me in the lake of fire fingers running on the walls 2 in the morning feeling lost the saints all laugh at my position i run outside the neighbor calls for me to come back and lock my door i grind my teeth and rockaby in hopes that this episode will soon become another reason to get high on useless capsules i’m prescribed by the drones of science
it used to be that brown or black eyes were the abysmal of magical beauty and blues were sparkling pools of Narcissus’ soul staring back at me today i walk slow aimlessly sipping pretending to be comfortable and care free but it’s only procrastination to my left bumper stickers promising green utopia for all to my right oceans deep with human carnage strewn and labeled social crisis the caucused trumped up rallies won’t heal my broken brothers and if i’m not careful the depth of my wavering human decency could quickly shallow up
back in the day of orange koolaid and Brady Bunch dreams candy cotton and carburetors diamonds pills and fancy ladies the news and no direct tomorrow TV dinners multiplex sorrows mop top slinky singer crooned in silky voice to the effect of time having no patience but i don’t blame those frigid tocking ticker arms because i’m a slow floating feather from a city bird molting from the Eiffel Tower statue sitting on any trinket shelf on Hollywood boulevard and through the fibers of the strain i struggle float away slowly in a deafening rage tickling the balls of all those who pose to be the royal peacock
it’s best if we sigh now
oh life for all of my days
you still haunt me
you just a state of neurological being
but you life you have gotten in my blood
no other place is better
i was conceived old
my thoughts Gemini to Don Quixote
and in times of desperation
i’ve gone blindly into battle too
just a shit head little cunt
from the city of LA
but fuck, fuck i say
you and i sister tough old bitch
we still stand
on the corners and the roofs
we too sit in the high life cafes
and the rat infested flop house bars
to tell old drunk sailors but not of Navy type
of how we got our scars
rape intoxication politics aggravation
education isolation insanity warm sun shine
loneliness love devotion twisted words
beatings in the dark making love on the sand
injecting poisons til the boils could hold no more
rode in the ambulances
mourning flat-lined blue lipped boys
ah life i am yours and no one else’s
when sitting by the ponds the koi fish
bubble up asking for my orange cheese crackers
every so often i can shed a few tears
when the coroner loads one of us into their van
never knowing who they were
but knowing that they’ll go to heaven
but my favorite scar by my cupids bow
when my face got smashed on the garage asphalt floor
so many fears and rage at the same time
and the pictures of my mother
lost on my travels with no paradigms
the scars in my heart
i keep those inside
some demons are best left
to the annals of the mind
now my friend lover spouse and enemy
we’ve walked down the path
that’s led us close to the horizon
of twilight and as much as i want to lay down to rest
and ponder your meaning and flick ashes on the floor
i realize that i’ve been just another story
at times screaming off my head
another woman scarred
by the significance
of nothing in your eyes