When that passing-by, retractable roof decides to protect our lovely basin once again from the seven stars above, the color of the sky turns into something a little brown. 
But with some purple to it, 

don’t you think?
It’s too bland and too basic, very
‘Show’s over, folks, grab the tarp from that end over there and will pull it over them together,’

to be something suspect to grey. 

It’s purple Brown, with

Charcoal particle,
covering our night sky and all those seven little stars, 

under lit by the amber brilliance of those ever glowing, One 34 in the morning 
One 34 in the morning and all two-hundred 23,

(‘That’s it?’) 
Eight hundred and 6
high-rise towers in Los Angeles, 
and that includes the ones that just light up at night to convince you people are working in them. 

There’s also any of the following awake at night and driving (‘We’re thinking Blade Runner, baby’): 
484 thousand
one hundred and twenty-three thousand, 669 motorcycles and one million, 68 thousand, 213 commercial vehicles (‘Bjork probably eats this shit up!’). 

That’s a lot of light. 

Varied light, too. 
Although there’s been no word from Bird. 
the purple lanterns lighting that one bit up on Riverside. 

All of it. 

Beaming upward. 

Towards that 
Tarp, that 
combination of the charcoal particle, the 
smog, the fog, all those cigarettes – the exhaust of cars, factory fumes, the coughed out black of 2-stroke lawnmowers illegal in California (I think) that turn neighborhood soundscapes into ongoing vamps of cystic sacs popping, the tar pus of them all blasting with expelled squalls of toxic gas out these hyper-active metallic sphincters of robot moose,

And the fires… 

(Remember that photo of the horsies on the sands of Malibu looking towards a blazing horizon, camels too, like Jesus Christ)

And then it all blends in with the clouds? The lot of it all, you know, just all of it combined, the pollutions, 
the light of it all, 

With the fumes and …the clouds. 


Clouds of which – 

Which I suppose we, hm. I see. 

‘What you could say. ‘Is.’’

Well I suppose we could, we
…could say…

I suppose we could say that the clouds in this instance are something suspect to grey. 


The lid could have some grey to it. Fine.

By which case, in addition to another observation made moments ago, I stand corrected and renowned. ‘Renewed.’ proudly.

The error here for real, is that the sky is sometimes just the cloud. Sure.

You know. ‘It’s just a cloud sometimes,’
And now, 

Here comes a single star.

Could always be a drone, who knows. 

And ah! There’s Jupiter. Could be, at least I’ll open up my app in just a beat. Looks big from where I’m sitting, there goes the cloud and here comes the sky. The sky, 

Looking like a little indigo. 
but with some green to it,

don’t you think? Huh!

Science is boring but there’s a thing to the sky, the wind, the mountain time, 

the height and the light and the way these clouds just glow under the cuff, pillows
cirrus and stratus knowing no form, aside from maybe those taffy puffs that stretch across the sky (like heartstrings, stinging like they’re plucked when you come back to mind). 

Due west, (how’s your hair, and how’s the dog?), there’s this
to a wonder-less basin, most days,
but here,
most times,
box winds closer to the ground throw themselves East as the ones above (I suppose I’m fine), Westward.

West of honest smiles (and roadrunners), Natives pumping gas too slow and seasons called ‘monsoon.’ 

There’s the violins of the pines right now, their needles quivering in some sedated symphony (they’ve been doing it for years), with the blows we never see but always strike familiar (desert dust like jasmine white, you never thought it special).

All of it heading for you as the magmatic moon grows smaller the more we turn away and move in revolutions (the ache sizzles just the same, always less the more I stay away from you), and,

The thoughts of you, the longing, and the dreams of showing you what’s up Central, the bliss and kitsch, the Runaway’s hideaway, the Sun burning over some shared horizon (you’ve seen everything I’m talking about with those private IG accounts you use to stalk me), and the heat,

Good God,
as it mirrors off the bottoms of whatever label we’ve decided to give these, 

Carbonations, of everything that remains constant and yet so ever lovingly promises, 

I dunno, 


Or the promise of demise? The end of things but the continuation afterward, that old, fabled telling of time, forever fading, although moving, dissipated, like sugar in Colorado blue, these thoughts of you, again, sorry (don’t hate me) – 

They’ve grown so weak. The longing once and for all replaced with grief,

and some day soon, some time after tonight, like the light and the wind and the clouds of no form, I suspect,

And I hypothesise (I don’t mean to sound excited),

The grief will turn towards the unknown, born again, like continuation, for some other winds, for some other boy, for some type of adoration.

The sky for now, due without the labels (but I think you’re finally out of here).

I’ve always wanted church on Sundays, though I’ve never gone,
all that


The knowing God loves you, just not enough to save you (?), you know,
all that


that spooks.


Sitting here, I gaze,

Knowing something else is true,
or fine.

I suppose.

The dolphins feed Northbound at 6,
‘Cue the fins,’
Knowing coasts, the mountain lines singing with the sky in stanzas, those motif connect-the-dots upon the staffs, amongst nimbus songs,
Standing, stalled silhouettes negotiating crumble always.
Laughing with them, in this chair, with the fried chicken from the Ralph’s at the Pacific Palisades, where Lizzie once wrote poems too.

Solar flares chill you into embrace and the grains of sands from faraway lands tumble as they dance and flow, into something viscous between your toes,
as he comes to mind (and rubs your shoulders too the way it felt when he held you at night and you trembled low),

(Those hands are gone now),

But there’s your dance, the beach set-up, pomp and circumstance of Sunset deconstruction, that’s kneeling at the altar, Incubator Isle’s empty and you know the water will be good come June.

As His burn sears your neck like a sober kiss,
We peel away and remember:

Body of Christ by way of the 101 to the 405,
Steadfast down Chappaqua after tapping cards at Ralph’s,
onwards towards the Pacific,
church on Sunday’s by way of Saturday,
by way of surrendering to the presences you always knew were always there,
His kingdom your pew,
vice versa, vice versa, Ad Infinitum,

and there’s a 17 minute slowdown on Sunset,
but you’re still on the fastest route.

Dazzle as She soars towards the setting Sun, forever rising higher that she flies,
this, beautiful,
clipped sparrow of Earth, ascending through the cirrus ribbons of Heaven, 
weaving for you the ladder you’ll one day use 
to arise,

and to follow, to
at some point, dear chick, join Mother by her side,

to regale her with the time you saw her climb,
into the mysterium of divinity after all those years chasing wind under the wings,

the feathered wraps that will enrapture you then,
as they already do and much closer than God,
or the breath in your lungs,
you’ll feel them someday, just feel them today
and weep as you may,
and friend, 

Dear friend,

Bury the burden into the branches. 

Let your mourning light dry the fear in your tears,
and you allow your grief to someday turn to song. 

The broken tree you stand on is not your stage to mount,
but the platform you’ll use one day,

to rise, 

to rise,

Listen to the wind va-room va-room va-room,
with exhaust that ashes on white jasmine.
The groan of its engine washes out the welcome raven,
and the fumes that coat the Priuses make the palm trees sway their way.
Never mind the scraping rakes that used to come over carports, no,
hoist the blowers, make them loud and make them howl
and make the hummingbirds repeat themselves.
Hear the breeze as it learns to choke,
the billows as they always suffocate,
while PJ’s on repeat with the hopes that within the hour
calm will overcome the plumes of smog,
the patron saints of nothing can wander through their hilltop chapels once again
and wallow through the bellows of their hearts twinge
that come alive,
that come alive when listening to the wind.

There’s God in the wind
his fingers solar flare and point to you
with the measure of His force
He combs over flesh
and through the thick of your hair
The magnanimous heat of his touch cooled,
As it soars above the crests of the Pacific
and to you and your matcha latte
He finds his way. 

Even when they’re mad at you even when they love you.

They’ll block you from the lives they’ve curated, conjured and salvaged,
lied to preserve and present.

They will convince themselves they’ve known no wrong while spying for your demise,

Bitter with the walls they’ve built to save themselves
from the fires thew two of you ignited

upon the world.

They will want to watch you burn, assuming they’ve preserved their veneer by climbing onto higher ground,

not for hating you, but for needing to see what would come of them should they surrender the futility of their masquerade. The price to pay, to pretend, to them,
to hope you fail so that they never will, so they can get away, and get away with all.

Not getting caught is winning.

They’ll still watch your IG stories even when they’re mad at you even when they love you even when they’ve loved you needing kneading your and having you, hating you for calling out their bluff when honesty was all there was,
hating you for seeing the thing about you two.
Blocking you to unsee themselves, hiding them to unsee you, hoping that you fall and flail,
simply to avoid acknowledgment

that they already have.

They’ll still watch your IG stories and you’ll convince yourself you’re the bigger, better man,

but then again, who the fuck inspects to check who’s checking in, you fucking egomaniac?

The glasses that I wear are fake.

Speculative drag, sure, 
From the moment I put them I assume at least a bit of you for once will think I’m going somewhere 

with something. 

I’m not, 

Because these glasses that I’m wearing are fake.

And yes, I hate them.

They compliment the brows nicely and when I’m hungover,
the lips of the lens hide the bags my Thursday evenings always bring, and


They were expensive. And I think that’s kind of cool.


I’m growing older, 
eyes are going colder and 
sometimes the light that mirrors off of them is the only kind I’ve got.

When I take them off, I’m just – 

a balding pretty boy, ‘boy’ used loosely,
‘pretty’ I’ll hold onto for now, I’m a

Cuban muscle crisis, crisis being they’ve begun to weaken. Just the ass is peaking, and the cock, 

You know, 

When I’ve drank enough water. 

I keep them on and I’m salvaged from age.

I keep them on and I’m free,


of disease. And I keep them on hoping you’ll listen to me when I say

What it’s like to have it 

When my glasses are in my pocket.

But for now,
they’re on and I hate them, okay?  

It’s the confinement of periphery, 



Of going extra for the ordinary,
masking all the extraordinary,
and settling for the fractured light off of them, 
instead of the one inside,
and relinquishing being anything more, 

For fear of being what we’d be
for fear of what we’re told,
what’s been said
what we’ve had to hear before constructing our veneers.

they’re shelters of our wounds, 

shutters on the windows, exteriors to our interiors, erected so that finally

We can rest in peace each night knowing no one knows we’re having trouble sleeping.

With them built, with these glasses on,  

We can smile through our screams.
We can wear kaftans to Ralph’s, in Ojai,
distressed Marlboro tees to Republique
and chicken nuggies at the SoHo House heaven high above 

unwashed seas,
burning man and burning up you’ve taken on the crystal fad, I see,
VIP LA Phil presents that conductor guy who did the Star Wars thing so pack your lightsaber bought from Disneyland,
and when people ask about that painting of yourself you bought for you just find the thrill in knowing someone wants to know 

the more of you. 

They wanna know

That thing that’s you,

That thing 

you do that thing 

your wallet got.

That thing about you. Just

combing over the bald spot.

Unlike all the times before. 

When we’ve always kept them glasses off.

Before we knew we could even buy them.

Unlike all the times before, 

When we were ravaged for being bare. 

Unlike all the times before, 

When we weren’t all

perfectly happy. 

Perfectly cured. Perfectly clean.



There is no freedom.
Not for me at least. 
Bottles of pills, the three for months,
the ones I need and sometimes skip,
in a paper bag from Kaiser crunched up 
in the glove compartment of my pick-up truck. 

Driving from the Sunsets I used to seek
the dog is sitting next to me,
Lucinda and Sharon’s strumming all for me.

Searching for my farm in Nebraska unknown,
where the job awaits 

and my man slow-dances at the bar on Tuesdays.

He forgets my name but not my drink, 
his denim’s stained, his toothpick
looking like he’ll hit you with his eyes, 

that’s when he cries, 

when a strong man dies, 

it’s what his daddy used to say, 

Daddy’s something he likes to say. 

He promises he’s never satisfied, 
promises he’ll fade away, 

it’s what he wants

His only want, 
the power of his certainty, 
the tears on his cowboy cheeks over the stars outside the club, 
the muffled sounds of neon crust his skin with dirt and 
the tilted hat masks his pain. 

He sets the five AM alarm to work it out, 
always working, never thinking, handiwork, 
the medicine of using hands, 
sweating blindly, parched for water so he lights a fag and drinks his milk, 
has a rocking chair that overlooks the oaks
prefers the wooden steps instead, 

The ones that lead him to his farm and to his work where he works to pass the days 
and gaze 
at the nautical sky as the Sun dips beneath the plains behind him, 
in his Nebraska unknown, 
the one I found for him, 
the one that’s far from what he used to know. 

The Tuesday’s rolls around, 
those tumbleweed days into nights, 
slow-dancing at the bar like the ladies we are, 
lassoed and roped from whiskey to groped 
Daddy this and daddy that, 
safeword’s the whispers mother never shared with you 
the secrets of what you are, 
the maps of where you’re going, 
where they wanted you to go, 

And boy
were you going. 

But where you going now? 

The bottle’s running low. 
The other two are shot to hell. 
Too broke to have the farm 
but broke enough for handouts.

The ones that

That keep you in California. 
Bring you back to California. 
Trap you lost in California. 
For that 

crinkled bag, 
the three bottles for months, 

the pills you need but sometimes want to skip. 
Sure to die, but sure to ignore,
to flee with Ruffy in that pick-up truck 
and daydream of slow-dancing at the bar with what you are, 
no, what you wanted, 
knowing what you wanted but you’ll never be. 

Wanted the Nebraska unknown and tumbleweed dreams, 
blackened journal lines, line-dancing too
Something else that’s more for me,

Driving back to L.A.,
prescription filled,
every day and every time,
wanting to be free.