heart of the matter

i love going to the hills

atop Silver Lake

where i can see Hollywood

my home my western shore

my dusty concrete paths

winding with a promise

to all that we are alive

in the City of Illusions

and that life is no illusion after all

paradox is my goddess

and Los Angeles my church

my habit was my pope

and my grit was my curse

perhaps we all strive

to go back home to reconcile

the hemorrhaging broken vein

and that’s all we want

shroud

shroud

window at dusk

clove cigarette

clings between wet lips

diet coke

dangerously close to keyboard

sad tired eyes

the color of gypsy moss

blood trickles

from her nose

at times

thoughts bounce

like dandelion pappi

blown from the tiny lips of babes

and at times

an invisible pang

slightly electrically melancholic

in the middle of the chest

looking down to see

how people such as we

just all wander

on Spring street

she thinks with slightly damaged brain

do they see as i see

she feels the wounds of the mistaken

and soothes the misguided vigor of the innocent

the sweet sweat of gardenias

distract the ghost

locked in her heart

life becomes less ordinary

and so she sits to write

out the fabric of her soul

Ryan Mountain

a young girl i was

when i drove to the desert

i took what Allen dropped

when he was young

like i was

the Joshua Trees

imperial yes they were

tall a strong dark green

some with arms bent up at the sky

which by the way Sky did rain on me

a supple velvety soothing rain

i slipped a little higher

the rocks they opened their slate stained eyes

and the he snake slithered from their underneath

the rain she smelled like new born clay

the vitality of her holy droplets

caused the birds and lizards to come alive

in a jubilant resurrection

at which time i had ten hands

but i could still see my cut up shirt

doused in the liquid of the day

me thinks Dylan Thomas and i could have made love

in dream of mercy a girl laughing with the crimson ants

and the ashy grasshoppers orchestrated with their legs

auditory melodious delight

the horizon a throne

golden

filled with blue angels

as i tilted my face toward the west

the Queen Sun released me into sedation

to trip

shivering in the bedroom

trying to find a slightly less mended Chanel

middle aged

anxiety on my tongue

finger nail polished half chewed off

scar tissue protrudes on my left knuckle

the difference in the mosh pits was

we all beat

each other up together

the other morning i went out

to see some band play

they weren’t quite what i remembered

slower thicker grayer

yet still crazy

jacked up rockin

in some of our heads

high on beet juice and weed

when i stand in my room

i don’t want to just be rockin in my head

i should go to the beauty clinic

and laser off this scar

but i’m not ashamed by it

besides i might read Bukowski in the waiting room

and offend some old Barbie

i’d like to be banged by that bass player

and have him pluck on my thing

and then there’s Beck on Mt. Washington

singing Spanish riffs into the mike

the band has never heard of me

but we both know how to twirl and punch

and they have to go home to their wives

standing in my bedroom

my moves aren’t quite as swift

the best band i ever knew went disco

and the new bands lack the rage

i try to start the mosh pit

and give the bass player my number

but they twitter about health

things

yoga things

beet juice recipes

CBD things

i watch the boba settle in my milk tea

i know what my fate is

but it’s too gruesome to process

i won’t land the bassist

you buy we fry

my favorite chair

are the sidewalks

those in the 20’s and 30’s

edge of downtown streets

a mix of rustic houses

shacks and alley ways

some with flowers

some with trash

my favorite chair

is not comforting at first

it affords me front row view

to the less palatable aspects

of genteel society

exposed vaginas cocks

twisted tongues

defecation out of

hundreds of orifices

then there’s the strip mall chair

with the upright and honest

vendor my favorite one

is Donicio from Panama

he has a way of telling

funny stories

across from there

is another chair

‘you buy, we fry’

it’s mostly busy

on the sabbath

my eyes their

veils of formal education

lifted and the life of life

exposed to all my senses

there is something thrilling

about hopscotching through

dog shit in a city

that treats us all the same

my favorite chair

in the bars of the people

although people aren’t

what they used to be

my amiga Casimira

has the latest I Phone

when i want to look in to

her deep brown eyes

and have her Oaxacan accent

transport me to another land

especially on jury duty day

to no avail

i lost my friend

to the latest pop up store

at the end of most days

when the journey’s done

i go home to my derelict

dog and two jaded kitties

with caffeine in one hand

Phoebe Ann the cat on my lap

the memories of my rest stops

deposited silently

in the removable data bank

happy

sometimes in the middle of the night

i take the train from one part of town

and then back to the other side

i can’t sleep so i face my curiosity

tipping into the cleavage of the city

and her girlfriend moon

outside of the rolling cab my eyes

they register that it’s dirty

i swear i can see the car exhaust

black sooty pungent belching vulgarity

in the lungs of LA

behold the automotive crack pipe

then my attention flutters to the men

velvet skin plastic smiles and silver tongues

selling me a piece of Jesus and His hotrod

Hollywood Boulevard how much to eat me tonight

i burrow my alien feelings into the tunnels

and the cocky rail rides me to the platform

where humanity scrambles at the truth

of how small we must be to the Bitchgoddess

of everything all poets in history

have lamented about

to chase and purr on the formidable

lies that we are fed

only to show who kindness i wonder

i’m too old and out of time

to place gender or definition on my pleasures

the time to gamble with the rules and regulations

is quickly ending

at dawn pink and gray

with the smell of the city and

her beautifully cruel courtesans

on my hands and lips

i stagger up 7th street

and bum a cigarette from the Meals on Wheels guy

chat up Bang Me Billy and ask about his truck

we stroll to the rich folk Starbucks

he waltzes me up to the lines

we both feel very alive again

and smile at the young savvy people

when they turn up their nose

dissecting the Geneva Convention

the summer is what it is here

the humidity clinging to my tired skin

like a crazy 50’s t.v. wife mockery

on Wall there’s the law and then there’s us

each side with glaring mutual understanding

that nothing is being done

no longer angels no longer devils

Gods gone fishing and they won’t be coming back

the species of Adam failed to keep their end of the

Covenant with Noah and Jesus holy shit what have we done

in life there is reason and there’s law

inside the soul there is right and there is wrong

inside the ego all is mine and nothing yours

on Koehler there is a man who doesn’t know he suffers

the fear he knows not himself prisoner of

the bio-hazardous ecosystem freedom gone awry

the filth the human shit the rage the insanity disease

the pain addiction poverty starvation piss trash

tears the waste of modern time

no longer get through the stains of a life

poorly lived or sorely wasted no logic

no feelings no rhyming no Kingdom will come

betwixt the cardboard and the shelter

the damage has been done

wage on me wage your wars

indifference is your nuclear weapon

oracle

it’s not that i am being difficult Majesty

my people have no food to eat

not a pond to wash their tired feet

and my sons they squabble in vain

my daughters they struggle in pain

Majesty all i‘m saying is that my words

should not offend you as you have told

me always speak truth

but i have realized that i

do not agree that my tongue should be tied

and my soul deprived of freedom

to be who i am to soar to the heavens

or to delve in the deep

i do not agree that my limbs

should be caged if i have to

wage war against the enemies of my innocent babes

i don’t mean to be ungrateful

and rebellious at times

but when my children are cut down

by your Princes and clowns

i have to attack with my voice and my heart

through words that are poison

to your ego fueled mind

the sergeants of time

will slowly creep by

and carve out a zone

where i might just languish

in your punishing hate

but don’t turn your back

on those who adore you the most

because with every flower and offering

and purse full of coins

that they render to you

will only weigh you down

to a perdition of soul of spirit and crown

you can shut my lips and burn my body down

but it’s just a body a bag made of vanishing flesh

however Majesty you cannot neglect

the truth in their eyes

the strength in their breath

the beauty in their spirit

their righteous battle call

when the war rages out

the wicked will fall

Zorya

there she is

bright bold with golden arms

the lady who comes to purify my blood

just 2 hours and 34 minutes in the past

did the he moon with his mariachi suit

cry with me because he is a gentleman

we had clinked tequila glasses

while he kissed my hands

but with each step Zorya takes toward my window

i’ve come to prefer the strong espresso roast

dark heavy smoldering like your heart

you prefer to sleep

after quaking and quivering through my mounds

and when your eyes come open wide your armor

will cover you again

as i remain the faithful wench

in the china cup where the gold has chipped off

filled with mud and some manipulative tears

my cigarette will drown in sorrow

so i walk into the bathroom

to wash your sheep’s odor

off my she wolf fur

moment of clarity

july evening warm humidly noisy

in the city i sit between Spring and Broadway streets

at a mall downtown where i’d like to fantasize Bradbury

could be found drinking coffee

looking to my left there are the kids joshing and cussing

rolling on skateboards zephyrs with iphones

to my right hipsters with credit cards today green means something else

micro chips smart chips designer chips vegan chips

i smile Mona L style and sip my Vietnamese coffee straight up

pigeons coo me out seductively with the waffle sound

of their aged wings dusty with the history of my time

here in this old new modern city

a tiny crack on the wall

by the fire department’s emergency pipe

holds my attention but i knit my brows

dainty lilac flowers

offered up to the most attentive student

the teacher dark green weed shows the little creatures

exquisite tiny intricate jewels luring in the bees

another universe within my urban home

i don’t like hot weather

sweat panting and stickiness

should only be for sex

but if the retiring sun hadn’t drawn me out

for the night i would have missed the buzzing of life

and random thoughts of HST soul madness and did JD really

shoot his ashes out of a canon

crazy kids at times trapped by the freedom of the mind

i’m working on an espresso now looking around

twirling my ankle like a cat’s tail

am i happy today i must be

today i’m not running

as much