I’ve always wanted church on Sundays, though I’ve never gone,
The knowing God loves you, just not enough to save you (?), you know,
Sitting here, I gaze,
Knowing something else is true,
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.
I had a smoke in the rain and a fella asked if I’m okay,
said all was well, my man,
I’m just coming from L.A.
we took our hands into the pines and
for the view we knew we knew,
and begged it to be new, at least renewed,
setting Sun, speckled, caught
in the pools like tears we sought
looking down the hill at Cedar Grove.
Mistaken mounds for mountains climbed,
ascended once again
for that view of Oz on Bunker Hill, the one I showed you once
the one you promised was ours at last.
Asking how it’s been, insisting nothing’s wrong,
there’s nothing wrong, but something’s wrong
and sometimes people are simply wrong,
the placation in omission,
the appeasement of a view.
Cross-wired fires, deathscrolls inspired,
everything’s fine with talk of wine
and where to go once we’re down at our cars
that are parked by the Greek.
Keys in the ignition, there’s the thoughts of our position
do we flee or drive into a tree, fucking
tired of the rhyme and reason.
pathologies in treason, inside in spite of what we knew
was best for us,
that view we knew we knew
Until the inevitable flames of Indian summer come around
and the mistaken mounds of mountains climbed
are once again scorched
by the cross-wired flashes of all things hot
and we incinerate into phoenix ash with the promised blossom,
or unfurled crimson wings
and blinded flight towards our setting
Asking how it’s been, insisting nothing’s wrong,
there’s nothing wrong, but something’s wrong
and sometimes people
we’re simply wrong.
Some things don’t know what’s best for them
it’s why they don’t know what’s wrong with them.
An old lady with a hunched back had just left the Bar @ Pacific Theaters (at The Grove)
and was headed for the door.
She was pulling a parking voucher out of her purse to get it stamped.
And she had just finished her beer,
I want to say after watching ‘Overboard.’
Voucher in hand she slowly lurches off her stool and with a crane cranks herself towards the
revolving doors that would lead her out of the Pacific Theaters at The Grove towards the fountains that dance for Sinatra and always Sinatra even during Christmas
Outside the Pacific Theaters at the Grove.
Some dude on a date with a guy nudges his newfound boy-toy’s shoulder,
Points at the lady as she tries to push herself out and through the doorway.
She’s caught in some sort of kinetic vortex,
battling at the handles for the cycle to go her speed as an eager couple late for their movie tries to barrel on through,
Leftover quesadilla in their Cheesecake Factory plastic bag with the emblazoned cursive red print that allows them to assume they’d just dined and died in Vienna,
But with quesadillas.
Meanwhile this dude with the baby-trick’s just getting a kick out of the shit,
Nudging on and pressing it onto his bought-out ass piece wearing Penguin and some
dressed to impress in LA (he should’ve worn a graphic tee),
And he knows it with his hands in his pockets
You can see his upset from his being asked to look at what makes his ride-home feel vindicated and immune to the amorphous curse of time,
As him and his other buddies crack yes now,
Something about WD-40 on the bitch.
The young man does nothing to help the lady
As she hobbles onward and into the night light off dancing fountains and 20 dollar salads without salmon at La Piazza.
Quesadilla couple makes it to their movie.
I think the boys with their boys were headed for the same auditorium.
I would’ve done something but I was a next in line for a beer,
at the Bar @ Pacific Theaters,
This one time in the Pacific Theaters lobby at The Grove.
Fires in the sky of California and sunset in the desert’s been chased beyond the sepia void,
where mountains once screamed for the title of what’s left on our horizon.
It’s as though they’d all gone fucking mental, but now they’re gone, too, don’t you see?
They were onto something.
I never thought I was insane,
just that I allowed myself to be treated undisputedly towards and through the brink of my own,
For now, though, thinking of when you asked me if I’d ever been to Aspen.
Instead of separate homes, a part of me wishes we were riding towards the Gas Lite, at the end of the line,
Down on Wilshire, Karaoke Wednesdays every night,
And you’re in your board shorts and flip flops and once we’re there we spill the spells, and you
tell me there’s a secret reservoir somewhere apparently in Malibu, where
If you keep going straight down old Crags road, there’s a lake nearby made from a dam.
You say we’ll find a Left up ahead and once we take it that’s where we find our spring,
After singing Kokomo (there’s PBR’s in there somewhere), we drive onward upward onto Kanan road,
And at the dead of night,
The deadest before Dawn,
We mistake the moon for the 5 PM we used to know two hours ago and suddenly my bumper’s not falling off like it used to (You’d pulled over and fixed it while I napped through the blink of an eye) and when I woke we were flying and you were talking about barnacles in Massachusetts.
There’s no longer a light to the heat but lower the window, see?
It feels like it’s still there. It now brims and breathes, but from below, the peddled ground, you feel it don’t you, it’s become what made it so?
On the way after our dip at the Century Reservoir,
You’re sure to stop for some slushees and airplane liquor to quench my lungs from the American Spirit that scorched my breath a pack ago today.
I hold your hand and you
My crotch. Your grip’s a kiss,
As we’re driving onward through the Mojave,
Towards the snows of Colorado and you’re driving,
the thoughts of ski lifts
and thrusts in some hot tub keep our eyes ahead of what’s already become of us now,
In this moment here,
driving towards the fires
In the skies,
Night clouds of thunder their
Lightening forever lit and stalled and netted,
Window frames of ember-ed gold –
Champagne cherries, lit cigarettes
Tangled down by the smoking swaying
Canopies of the hills,
While us down here in the grid,
The shining rows of halogen and brake lights, neon too
Somewhere in there that’s where the Pikey used to be –
Nordstrom memorializes yesteryear Beverly Park with its Kiddie Land and laughs and screams,
Soon imported like just the other day
Towards down the bend just past the beanery,
Where pastels shine like moons
And swings are reserved for Mickey’s.
Stolichnaya’s closed for the night but the flour’s set to pour in and float with plumes within a couple hours,
Before the birds squeal over territory,
Though after mic drops echoing of cheering crowds finally fade
And Jacarandas still sway with greeting for Spring,
Lilac into mauve into indigo at night,
No matter the light up until dawn.
I can’t recall Vaseline Alley
In fact I’ve never known it,
But the sensation sure,
Kate waltzing through her Sensual World,
Her Machavellian kneels, afterward
Gargling over at Gold Coast Listerine, fresh-minted moscow mules still tasting of warm water and salt but with ice.
Smoke breaks with e-pens, the new cruise,
Pay no regard the new what’s your number, bumped shoulders the ASL,
Ever been to Basix, the new Have we done this before.
Pining eyes leaned against the dumpster,
Or so I was told,
Beyond the backroom at the Circus
the jostled down service entrance with broken frames, the broken promise one would
hope to break with a score,
in a time before it became nothing but for pissing in secret and the piece
of the night’s 270 feet away, so says on the phone,
but the line at the Abbey’s gone on way too long to hone in on one’s instant connection.
The scraping of boots and Levi’s against asphalt gone –
Along the way said goodbye to the initial heave and thrust against brick walls and
signs that read No Loitering,
Surrendered for deafening noise
and crinkling bottles of water,
No need hearing what one’s saying,
so long as glazed eyes read and gauge the lips,
A pondering wallow for the alleys of men whose men took the knee
before the G, and in knowing dismissal of the
fluid death decades later would soon resign without a halt
fortified through kneading and needing,
the nurseries turned nightclubs where most now so secure would
forgo the bated pining for tough and being
for the grasp of the excessive, the night forgotten until
recounting the evening with 1 PM morning’s chilaquiles.
I read Elton performed Honky Tonk Woman
Sometime before the lines were no longer a thing,
at least the lines before we knew them,
six feet apart at least a gaggle of twenty
cramped merch tables and spilt Fireball,
pressed against the wall opposite of the bar, guitars hung, their strings, they’re totems
Joni Mitchell 1968
Amateur Tom Waits discovered some time later, thanks to Herb
Some time before Miles brought back the cool sounds of jazz
and Bob plays for Roger’s encore – keep the car going,
in this Sad Cafe, red neon into blue
and Eagles meet before they soar.
Persian rugs laid into plates of spaghetti wire
With the ladies of the canyon driving down in their trucks and double-parking,
Carly’s worth the tow.
Baths of sweat come with sines from wood
With pressed chests and shoulders making rested pillows for lovers’ chins,
Until the noise rings only in the drum of the hearts
and is once released outside in the air of the desert basin,
the towering Oz of Century City, a reminder of footing outside euphoria,
and exhaust of Santa Monica Boulevard the standing fans that cake the sweat and plunges the skin into a plaster of grunge.
New York comes to mind,
Troubadour the city of its own institution,
Friends made hours in shared lyrics, sure, shared sips of course,
Scattered into the night for good before ascending back up into Laurel Canyon or up the block through Norma Triangle, where, Billboard lights on Sunset Boulevard now gone LED
Shine bodies turned mannequins fossilize
The forever ago of the set into a single moment, a single noise
out of the wood temple trappings amidst a town of the boys
lays the city of gold,
two doors through towards the stage,
Catching rocketman at age 2-3, his America sold.
Cars slipping down ‘The’s’
Cascading river of fuming light
They don’t know what they’ve made for us
Up here or up above
I don’t think they even give a shit
I know I wouldn’t
Bjork had a video once,
Something about us
Super computer humans with
And Datahouse condos
Prius coffins also all
We always look it, don’t we
That’s blood orange of Northern Italy
Milan on the horizon
Where’d you get that from It looks very nice on you, doesn’t it
The speckled congregations of halogen and pathogen
You should see how Berlin divides from Space
Lumpectomies for Costco’s
Strip-malls the historic brownstone
You’re post-modern babe
You wouldn’t want Paris
But its recipes, Republique,
Its grams and IG’s and the cobblestone
No maybe not that
Digging for the finest ideas, though, you
Acting as gatherers
Sometimes the gesture does us in enough.
An idea of you as home as always frightened me
‘I’d rather be buried elsewhere’.
But yes I suppose there’s something more
Now I see you
Something you’re brought on me
You tumor of grids
Masses of galaxies
Trons of Jons and Vons and Lawns
People yearn for the maps of our stars
They always fall but
Never across the sky
For all the gravities you push into your orbit
And pull up
Into the hills
Constellations overlooking Milky Ways
You’re just all of me
And all of us
Weilding tongues of snakes and shamans
Vegans of Neptune
Peasants of Pluto we meme-share without desire for contact
Echoed shadows my denizens
I’m home and I’m landing
How God I wish I could see you at night when I look up at the sky the way I look at you on the ground
Landing now, I’ll need a smoke
Maybe then I’ll say I’m home
Here it comes, the tires down
Our Landing gear in set
Concrete burn and skid
And standing idly on the escalator no matter which side you wish to lean
I taste the dry
Air cakes the face like a mask
Into Rosé and violet and Aperol Spritz
Being here’s like always waiting on the gates.
Fuck being buried,
I don’t know if we’re ever getting in.