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, 
Looking down 
Towering over 
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 – 
Down further
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
Microchip warehouses 
And Datahouse condos
Prius coffins also all
Avid clicks
On fire
We always look it, don’t we  

The Sun
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
You mass
Turnpike veins
Lumpectomies for Costco’s
Strip-malls the historic brownstone
You’re post-modern babe
Googie temples
Drive-thru Mecca
You wouldn’t want Paris 
But its recipes, Republique,
Or AirBNBs
Its grams and IG’s and the cobblestone 
No maybe not that
Digging for the finest ideas, though, you
City harvesters
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
Bunch up
And pull up
Into the hills
Constellations overlooking Milky Ways 
You’re just all of me
And all of us 
Us dreamers
Weilding tongues of snakes and shamans 
Saturn Sirens
Vegans of Neptune
Peasants of Pluto we meme-share without desire for contact
Elitist loner-dom
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
$60 Uber
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
Smog-filtered movie-glasses
Into Rosé and violet and Aperol Spritz
Heavenly graffiti.  

Being here’s like always waiting on the gates.  

Fuck being buried, 
I don’t know if we’re ever getting in.