There’s a man who
Thinks he’s a boy
There out on
His patio
At night
It’s almost Three
I had to pee.  

He’s always there
There on that
Chair of his 
His Feet’s up on another
They’re identical
Laptop on his 
Watching something
Something bright
And light
With light 
The light of a tunnel
Tunneled black mirror
I think he has a dog
Smoke Always
He’s always smoking
Eyes tired but
From watching
Something over &
Until he needs
Another breath of muddled numbness
This month it’s whiskey
Last month was whiskey, too.
Sometimes up until
I think he drowns to stay alive and
Rid the hurt
To hurt again
Where did it
First begin
The kick to the train
Down the 
Tracks sloping
Down something steep
A mountain upside Down,
Scratch of horizon too steep to climb
You’d fly instead
But from your feet
Wings On his feet.
Another glass with Roommate’s ice
He coughs
Scraped Grind
Of his chair
He should be writing
Should be sleeping
Should be
Working but there’s
Nothing’s Working
And there’s never tears
But pours
And porn and poppers, too
He’s never fixed his blinds
There’s a glow
But on a carcass.  

Boy the things 
I’ve watched him jerk it too
Re-watch central over there
The struggled
Pain that gets him off, or going
Is it what he wants or 
How he feels the
Of the primal urge to lose control 
And (or) want it stripped by rope and bourbon
He only drinks until he cums
No, I’ve never heard him cry

Stop asking.

But how he sobs in his sternum,

Playing a Lead in his
Movie version of this
movie land,
Foothills of Hollywood
Looking for an ending but liking all of the attention
Looking like
He’s blaming others
But still stiff to think of blaming 

the edgelord.  

By his door
The one I can 
See it
Looks like he’s getting out
Or going somewhere else.

Another patio
Maybe somewhere 
Where he needs or can knead
Maybe what 

Somewhere new to live 
In and with himself
Maybe The light of Sun
Or presence 
Of men 
He will see,
Want him as something other than an ottoman,
Imprisoned trophy bitch to men who live as boys.  

Does he plan on changing or does 
He already feel it’s too late for that
If only one thing then
The change of believing that. 

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. 

They’ll have robotic bees soon
Halal quarrels over Venmo
Muji distopia
Fanny-pack disphoria
That’s the lack of, not the opposite 
White men run the counter of Mamoun’s
Rest in Peace St. Marks
Can’t wait for your
pencil-dick towers 
to shadow over rivers
Keep your Ben and Jerry’s 
Fuck it with the Continental 5 for 10
Generations for steel and cork facades
Grates like griddles
Steam heat of an underbelly Sun,
Hell here and Hell under
At least the buses make less noise.

People are like cities here
But you’ve always only been yourself, haven’t you
Rooftops in Brooklyn got
Nothing on your sneer 
Or twinkle of eye you don’t yet know you’ve got.   

At least this time around.   

Hipsters have their babies now, 
Canon satchels
Warby Parkers
‘Manhattan on Safari’ 
That’s what we’ll call it
Dickie couture
Yves Saint Laruarnt
Cut offs tucked into running shorts
Fanny packs are back
You’d think they’d run out of ideas by now
Scuffed shoes
Lorimer, though I counted them all 
Scattered and flying through like stars, or
Streets I used to stumble
Or like there in our L.A.,
The houses that belonged to Simon Cowell. 
They say he’s drinking beer, 
You never liked the taste
You prefer a whiskey Erasure.   

There’s still magic here I’d forgotten, you know. 
Mothers pressing hands on baby’s ears, 
Smiles down under on the platform,
As their C to High Street’s rolling in
The baby keeps on sleeping. 
Poet Fathers with Picasso sons
Cardboard signs 
‘Love and care our Earth’
I want to see you hold a child’s hand.   

I ride a train towards another person’s home,
Another man I’ll fuck for the view. 
Where are you now? 

I’m somewhere under still,
Someplace between 14th and up.
You’d hate the heat,
At least the way it’s been
Swamp dick, a musty ass
The desert suits us more.   

Here there’s other men.
Different flours,
Water always never tastes the same
Depending on the hangover 
And or the avenue
These island boroughs have stayed the same
There’s now a Starbucks on Allen and something or other
God this heat 
Week-long Summer. 
Beads of sweat that taste of tears
down here
I know you don’t like those
And yet 
I’m beginning to think I need them
If not to love song 
Then to plea for you
For you to hold me in your arms
For me to know you mean it tight
It’s not an errand 
But something that you want
For me
Or for us
Or for you so I’ll keep
The train’s a station away
It’s getting hotter by the second
Breeze of the underground 
Break this Earth I stand on for a living
That’s a living
Living to want to Live
I beg of you
Submit my fever dreaming heart into 
Knowing that you’ll want me back 
So that this home I wish to 
Show and brag with you
Will simmer from Hudson river aqua into rat-trash fumes
Into yesteryear until it’s finally gone.
Even if you only say it I’ll think of it as true, 
I’ll hold off that demon air in corner number four
And tell my aches 
I’ll still be wanted after Christmas Season
After parties
When Winter People are no longer wanted
And tossed with flipsides of high life
‘At least we had prosecco.’   

There was something about cities, here,
I was working hoping leading towards concluding with, 
Something like the other shoe.   

I wish you were parked outside my house like that one time,
The time I pretended I wasn’t home. 
I wish I were home and looking out the window
Watching you
There was something to you hoping
Embodiment of something 
Wanting me.  

I suppose.
Let’s just meet at the Grove? 
Valet in the parking garage
There’s a gin bar I’ve been meaning to try,
They say Constance Wu is fantastic in Hustlers. 
Maybe cities are the people you do things with. 
I don’t know what that makes people.   

It’s too easy calling you L.A.   

Re other men, 
I’ll swallow all explanation for later
Please trust me,
For I will no less and inevitably self-destruct 
The way you know I can
The way that irritates
Yet makes you think you’ve done it right,
Your stronghold my frailty 
Kamikaze dreams of arms
And laughter 
Plastic cup cupboards
And overcooked falafel.  

I wish they had Mamoun’s in Chelsea.
I’d love to watch you act as if it’s something you’ve had better somewhere else. 

Your honks
Now come with trigger warnings
Right of way to shark boy and his three-wheeled scooter
Mommy’s on the Gram
Pleasantries her traffic light 
Right Fake on Go
Daddy’s pushing stroller for the akita  

Your Uniqlo’s swapped floors
Women take the stairs now
Must be the patriarchy.
Your men no longer navigate the elevator
In fact they think it’s theirs 
Pizza parties fifteenth floor
This hotel is for them too.   

You’ll no less bring back cargo pants
Guy Harvey tees to follow
And then froyo 
Post-modern Tasti-D-Lites 
But like pus I love watching you
seethe under pressure, this island your pore.  

Bile-puddled paths
Neighbor nestled nooks
For retweets and spritzes
And avocado toast that doesn’t fucking belong.  

You’re growing soft, you old fart
Soft and pudgy
Pop-up shops for drove-in Four-Wheeler Photo booths
Chino shorts on your mother’s credit card
Self-fulfillment you’re all Trumps. 

You’re working on your trash
Your notice taken with the rats
Your bins overflowing still
You keep digging yourself into a maze.   

Astounding really
I hope you’re proud and loud
No Grace filter for your Selfie? 
That’s really at the marrow, isn’t it
You think you’re hyper cool and
I was roofied once in a ghost building now a Gelateria
You walk now with your head facing the opposite direction Slower now
No jaywalking now
And yet you’ve become indignant
Dare I say boring
Good job my Prince
You’ve turned yourself into Vegas.   

Fuck you. 

I dream of you in daze
Into nights when I see you
And I’m reminded of the
Familiar fear of never worrying – 
I’m used to worry: 
It’s a pocket pet I’ve fed over the years
With years
And stamps 
It’s a 
A Bracketed lapse in living
Where I see the known ways I could hurt 
You, possible even 
Break you
End us Tear away the familiarity and turn it
Into shadow.   

I worry.   

There’s many ways I’ve gone about it
Many ways repeated
Many more ready for another run.   

I could sleep with another man. 
Perhaps a friend
Or worse a foe
Get you to worry our one on one’s got us 
Turned on you, Us
Knowing more now of the more of you
You chose to give us
I’ve done that.   

I could do ayahuasca in a suite in New Orleans
Northernmost city of the Caribbean
Seeing all the alien Gods
Or the insides of my coffin
Both the box I’m in but also the body that I am
And see what needs feeding then
‘Not you’ ‘No you don’t supply’
I’ll return to Beachwood and sit in my chair 
And ghost you into phantom yesteryear
Yeah, I’ve done that too.   

I could love you only when I’m pistol-
Ready, Bulleit made, foggy-brained
And say it till it’s obvious and 
And text you after that I’m gonna 
Marry you
And drunken-drive to you with 
Twenty dollars worth of dollar Del Taco 
And make you watch 
Videos of 
Or Stevie and pass out and half cum in the Morning
slowly over time
Mistaken hangover for you and loving you the most and
Decide that I need re-centering and
Distance (but never from the bottle) 
And worse! –
That all of it was only what had ‘happened in the night’
That’s been me.   

I could touch you.   

Shit that was the other one, no
You like it when I’m holding onto us –  

I could hit you.   

Worse, I could say the things a person isn’t allowed to say
The dagger proclamation
Of my silver-tongued knife
Wielded by this Monkey on my back I’ve 
Forgotten about otherwise 
And once it’s in you I’ll twist 
That’s all been me, too.   

I could be an executive at a studio
Sign on your mortal enemy 
The Nemesis 
In spite of you –
Get him two seasons 
About how he’s misunderstood but 
Still molests at Akbar or the Dome
Going buddy-buddy with him to dinners
Or at your favorite spots
Karaoke singsong, songs about paninis 
Or Pre-teen demigods who think 
They’re bad guys. 
And I’ll play nice with you
Because it gets you going
Gets me ahead
Always nice
Nice nice nice
You hate nice
‘boy, can’t that betray a soul?’ you say
Yes sir, I agree –
Edit: No, I probably wouldn’t go that far. 
I don’t know that I’m even capable
Keep it, as they say.   

I could keep believing what I fear is true
The spring of all my doubts that
I am
Not good. 
Particularly at being good which is
Different than just good enough for you
I worry.   

There’s a lot of things I wouldn’t do
A lot of things I’m incapable of
Maybe even
Tired of trying?
Getting away with. 
Weak-kneed but in the stomach with dry eyes
The galivanting
And the schmoozing 
I just want home already I worry. 
But also
Maybe there’s also something there? 
In that? 
In that
I dunno
You know me better sometimes
You’re the one who reads me
Has to see me I’m just living ‘me’
Think it, will you  

West elm sofas. A loveseat. 
Something local for a coffee table. 
Dinner in general 
Memberships to Wagville
Never Disney+
The movies you’ve wanted to show me. 
The words I’ve wanted you to know. 
Maybe the place has a bathtub. 
Two bed. 
Luxury tomb. 
Patio parties and proud soirees and
Top shelf liquor with that CVS discount
Cluttered glove compartment stuffed with receipt scarves. 
A little less drinking
Maybe at the start at least until doors 
Close more
And I’m working when you’re watching
Or I’m watching while you’re gone
And it all goes back to what it used to be 
Before we promised something new
I worry.   

For when it’s done and the dog is 
passed and stuffed 
makes a doorstop and you’re
Thinking Hancock Park or Paris and I’m thinking New York, Brooklyn or dead
A love is a lifetime I worry.   


What if something happens 
Something different dare I say
Something weird that could happen
Doesn’t happen
I don’t see 
To me
But just me I haven’t thought of us that way –   

What if we grow old together? 
There go promised memories of your
Hand holding mine
Scratching the back of your head
But now –
A forever-adding flipbook –
Our same hands
But with new spots Thinner skin. 
Closer every day towards our Wither Away
The chances of who will fade from us
For to die alone is to go in peace
But in the arms of a lover, their forever agony. 
Is all of that worse? 
Is to love to know what will be lost? 
Is it to hold it regardless of these
Boundaries in time,
Angelino mountains,
And drown our lungs in the vapor of now?

Of-fucking-course it is.

I worry.