to Eden Ahbez

the lights push their tiny twinkling mighty fists

through royal orange tinged ozone cloak

where in the northernmost cheek of Lady Angeles

Her court’s Hollywood sign summons the ghost

perhaps to enhance Her downtown hemline

where Her proud feet stomp down with fury

on the last remaining eyes.

on Lady Angeles’ head is the jeweled setting sun

caressing Her hillside fiery hair

to where Her jawline creates a blank mountain ridge

as we dive into Her haughty bosom

where we die and resurrect in divine light

out of nothing.

my Lady’s balmy metropolitan breath

puppeteers Her southernmost palm trees

as seen in past centuries by Her tawny Nephilim

kept in mad house storage

along Her Wilshire Boulevard

the miracle mile of all illusions

floating down the Vicodin corridors toward Lady’s womb in the Southeast

the mercenary birds of her entrance

strategize in unison on the stage of the moon

circling about a rain dance to the gods below Her river.

to the prophets of the ghetto cart

ascending to one of Her rooftop temples

in worship of ancient dark

in the age of paradox

in the industry of bootleg Immutable Light

bowing down to Her in the East

a facsimile of the Zeus’ and Poseidons’

dressed with man-hole crowns

virility that is hard to see in the shadows of the sky scraper overlords

who protect my Queen from extreme chess games

designed to lose Her head in the hills of Beverly.

Lady Angeles’ fortress nestled in the end of civilization

lies at Her feet in glory to Her beauty

only if i look inside of me

late at night

when the moths sleep
and the ants strategize
how to crumble a dead
water bug under the house
i wake up with fever.


the riveting white hot
hateful kind that doesn’t
let you sweat. my kidneys
brochette while my heart
slowly bakes and in a pang
of fear i think if i wait
will i live to the morning?


a war rages between heaven
and hell in a warning that
Einstein understood well
relativity unto death and life
the wormholes and quantum
so plainly in sight.

3:13 a.m.
so dimly you come. to
satiate my sole being with
liberty’s cry. but i wait
another season to trial
another pill in the angst
to chase life. a comfort
in theory, in practicum
a lie.

i hate coffee now

she came on the wave of

eggy breathes of revelers

choking on designer swine

I’d never seen a soul so simple

but in coffee intertwined she

talked of your affections

so disappointed that she wasn’t

taken to New York and how those

big blue ones scowled at her

but rest assured that my face

never betrayed the offers

made to me at our cafe

in a moment of nothing

when I thought I was something

in your words filled with emptiness

let down

i woke up early.

the scent of my soap

crept into my imagination

and dared me to dream.

i drew a map in my mind.

closed my eyes and squeezed

them shut hoping you would like

my soap too.

feeling the weight of your hands,

on my breasts and your lips on

my chest, my soul blushed.

just a little, though.

the little monk’s bell broke the

spell and i knew you weren’t coming.

urban pre-k

i think of air

the load on my mind

is old and un fascinating

Alvarado has lost its

gold and my memories with it

i miss the buildings and their soul

the potato pancakes and the ducks

breezes that used to smell like L.A. Times

have died away with Marilyn and the Waltz

the pain of polio boosters and empty hugs

rushes back as i walk from the past

on Sundays i had gampa and pistachios on the lawn

an incomprehensible accentuated teutonic love

but that too has flown away with the

sirens and on the wings of the med fly

Westlake

at 5:37 p.m. the smell of
bacon and fabric softener
covers the neighborhood
like 4 a.m. London fog

so many lies and angers
and injustices and tears
and hungers and losses

in one city block
but the smiles, oh
those immutable smiles
and the hope in the paper sacks

dog shit by the fichus trees

is the city’s way of welcome

but the carnival in the hearts

and the corn fed regimes in mind

cannot and will not tear

them down

angst, terror and hate

has become a child’s game

the roses are not free

but they are in juan v’s

can along the window

rotten with defeat

it is no longer enough

to wave the right flags

blood sacrifice one son

to the blue coats and one the

the Vat

no we have become

smarter than you

and we will not

lay down to the east

or to the west

but resign to be

free in the window

in the door

in our spirit

and in the mind

to be 74

although the scratches on the record

add to the appeal of midcentury Americana,

i don’t believe the boy at the counter

gave me correct change.

the fact that my perfume is from S.H.Kress

across the street, but the gangrene on my leg

cannot be hid by pheromones alone.

the stench is likened to war.

but that is not the fact.

the one good leg danced the Tennessee Waltz

when it was good, the bad leg was bad

from the beginning.

the root, the marrow, the veins,

the sinews all of it; rotten

all over. i wear pearls and smile

at the wrong time and in the wrongest of place.

Buddy Clark in my head,

i saw Treasure of Sierra Madre

merely to see Bogey again

on Los Angeles Street before

the nuclear heat pushes me down

the barker

scurry, flurry

and tread right up

to the strangest

show on earth

come one or all who

remain in this world

to see the corpse in

the archives of time

hanging for the wolves

beloved and slated in one breath

global victim of the letter

of the law

inoperable in the one pit of time

terror and broken bone

let the vultures

entertain your value

let the earth open up and

imbibe us whole

oh holy milky way

spit us back out

through caves

let the mud and the ashes

fill in the tooth

the trees are all broken

the soul’s in the zoo

waiting for a

piece of meat