I make it a point to never plan on it.
I don't designate a time or a place for it.
I don't schedule my days around it.

I don't wish to sound smug when I say
I try to put the least bit of effort into it.
I don't allow it to bother me when the words don't come.
I don't think about those lost thoughts or that unused line that looked so good on paper. Yet somehow it still made its way into the garbage along with the dinner I couldn't eat, the dishes she broke and the beers I already drank.

To me it is all meant for paper.
The thoughts that rob me of my sleep.
The memories that keep me from ever being truly happy.
The damage I've kept hidden for so long now I often forget why it is the tears come when they do.

Bukowski had a Bluebird and wrote about it only once.
Dante looked to Virgil and mentioned him by name.

You can not force a miracle nor could you guarantee a masterpiece.
I'm alone with this, scared half to death about losing this.

I don't force it to come.
Though I do recognize the Muse when it makes its self known
and appears to me on paper.

The cruelest
of all things
is the short
amount of time
the Gods
have allowed us
to spend
with our pets.

Crazy, times moving too fast
not enough time to know about anything
before that anything becomes something
that's already passed.

Don't forget your coat,
don't forget to write home,
don't forget about me.

Holidays wicked holidays
filled with fire and days gone by.
Days you can't help but remember,
days you count the days until its return again .

Holidays act as a place in time
you wish you can live again.
Again like the memories that flash,
the smiles we wore and the wine.
The sweet summer wine.

Some only remember what the wine
hasn't already wiped away.

Celebrate with me this one day
that we all remember.
All the days after this are but a break in time.

Time that's taking all the good you had in you
and all the days spent chasing a little bit
of my yesterdays.
Until my yesterdays are too forgotten.

Another holiday approaches and
we prepare to do it all over again.

It's blackened,
like the eyes
of the scavenging gulls.
It beats in
irregular patterns,
much like the native
upon the sacred drum.
And on slow mornings
it gives to pause.
Like the wanderer pauses
to look back across the
flames and at all that
has burned with the
Love and the
sun kissed days.
All that are now only
scares upon the
memory.
All so long ago.

Vengeance sat beside
me on a sorrow filled
Saturday night.

We wasted time ,
spent our nights
drinking and high.
Fruscusciantes words
singing magic in the air
and the sound of the
passing world and
the passing cars
outside my window
for company.
I think I was drunk,
and I know I was High,
or maybe it was the pills,
oh so many pills ago.

My left nostril was clogged,
and I could still taste
that sour numbing drip
at the back of my throat.
How long ago has it been
since I crossed that line.
How many years have passed
since I broke through the
fog and came to this.
My days run parallel  to these
nights that bring a
distorted form of peace
while the madness of the
world sleeps and dreams
of nothing but having more.

Vengeance be my company,
Vengeance keeps me moving.
And Vengeance be my
blanket when I'm cold,
my fruit when I'm hungry,
and my Old friend when
I'm lonely.
Vengeance burning
beneath my tattooed
skin.
Burning bright in colors
like the
falling leaves
in October.

Peace one day shall
wash away this madness.
My nights will no longer
be spent with my
shaking hand
wrapped tightly
around the
bottle.
No Longer will I feel the
need to pass my days
while wasted and
my troubled nights alone.
Vengeance one day shall
call upon me,
awake me from my
stupor and
allow me to take flight,
then send my heart
astray.

Most of these choices
evolved from
random thoughts.
The learned way had
been abandoned.

The air held hostility
and the peoples
minds were
polluted
with a threatening view
of the world.

There was still trust
in the talking heads
and trust in the
Novocaine.

I found I could
drink and use
and be able to
stay cool while
everyone else
was panicking.

A radio played
and the lyrics rang true.
"Trust in me and fall
as well."

The pigeons sat on
wires in groups like
gray clouds full of
anxiety and doubt.

Stray dogs shared
negative thoughts
and ran the streets
with pink tongues
swinging from
in between
stained and bloodied
canines.

The moon took
flight and produced a new
era of paranoia.
A Fleeting feeling of
worry and reasons
blew in with the
wind.

I closed the door and
thought out loud.

Why risk it all
and step out
into the world when
I look around and
listen hard and find
so many reasons
to avoid it.

This soul survives
on hope
alone.
Chained up and
burning.
tear stained and
laughing.

Shut out this version
of living and
blackout the time.
Artificial lighting
brightens nothing.

This unemotional winter
remains as unforgiving
as a vengeful heart.

I'm in the
midst of Dantes
version.
Chattering teeth,
blue black numbing
digits.

Curl into the corner
and pour it all
out in words.
Yesterdays thoughts
documented for a
better day.

Mutilated as
Van Gogh,
troubled as the
artist.
I'm aggressive with
this,
I have no other
choice but to
remain honest.

Accepted
the association
with failure.
Long to be
remembered
for this.

Little Martha and her
yellow apples.
She drinks warm Mezcal
in the Poppy fields.

Copper canyon runners
wear thin leather
thongs on their
callused ash white feet.

Elevated Chicken coops
keep the Hens cool
in the summer and
safe from the
Copperheads on the
desert floor below.

Men soar like
Eagles and glide
around Polaris.
Trust in the
Hemp ropes
and trust in their
Creator.

Her father went South
to fight for his People.
That's the story she
still tells when asked
about him today.

The rays fall from the sky
onto the sea of people below.
  They do what they are meant to do .
And they do nothing more.

Another world another life.
A million promises with
nothing to look forward to.

You live as you die the goal
is to avoid the rains and
stay looking beautiful
as you do it.

Have you realized
its the waters.
All that is beyond is
as so below.

A whale's song could be
heard for miles.
An ocean wave can
stretch across our world.

Water forms in everything
it fills the glass,
cools the drink, it grows the
Hemp and the Pumpkin Squash.
It cleanses the soul while
hiding the  Gods.

Ever wonder why the sky is blue.
Why the rains are so sacred
and why the sky is blue.

It could take your breath
and give you life.

The rains that fall
are the heavy laden tears
of the dead and drowning .

Unionized Teachers and
Radicalized Administrators
believe somehow they know whats best.

Agenda driven issues disguised as ideas.
Tolerance and equality have both lost their way.

Bearded women dressed in *******
read stories about Princess Boys to confused children.

Kindergarten boys drawing Crayola vaginas
while the girls form phalluses from play do.

Inverted celebrities influence
the young.
While the verbal history of their
elders is ignored.

All of this is by design.
The Law of Reversal
is their law
not mine.

Their goal is to
usher in The End of Days
like they have so many times before.

The twenty somethings
are all for science and progression.
Yet have no idea
what freedom ever was.

The pigeons picked at the
crumbs in between the diamonds.
But they were more than likely
just pieces of broken glass.

The occupants of
the Mad house sit
out front on the concrete steps.
The look on their faces
say they are far
away from all of this used to be.

He could have been a
family man, a respected man.
Instead he slept like a
naive little baby, curled up on
the concrete with only
a wine stained coat for comfort.

This here is an asphalt
run still alive with history.

Good time girls and juiced up
sailors once painted this
street red with painted kisses
and fist fight blood.

The guys danced with the
women whose lips were
as red as the wine they drank.

This all should have gone
on forever.

All that is left now are
the pigeons and
the broken glass.

The winos and the Mad ones,
who shuffle like lost penguins
along Beacon street.
Still waiting for
the party to begin.

I am the
Fox.

And these
Demons
are the
hounds.

Their pursuit
is endless.

And my
need to flee is
my wanting
to survive.

Let our conflict
never cease.

May we avenge
our dead
and raise our
young on war.

We are enemies
and fighting is
the only way
to die.

Let us
remain
enemies.

Enemies like
the Pigmy's
and the Cranes.

With far too
many dead
to ever
make peace.

Insight
is what
makes
my
thoughts
Unique.

You don't truly appreciate life.
All the joys and sorrows
that come along with it.

Until you have done all you could
to comfort someone you care for .

While you stand helplessly watching the one you love
as they struggle to hold onto to this thing we call life .

It's
always
the ones
who've
done
the least
and
sacrificed
nothing,
who
always
seem
to have
the
most to
say.

We drove fast,
the way only
the young
can do.
Recklessly and
carefree while
wildly tripping
across that
broken
highway.

I heard the
echo of our
hollow laughter,
felt the
vibration all
through my open
mind.

My mouth remained
dry no matter
how much
Orange juice I
drank.

Along the edge
of the world
the untamed
field of
sage bush and
honey suckle
swayed
like dancing
girls in unison
to the warm
California wind.

We sat and
watched in silence
as the Palm fronds
danced in ballgowns
through the
grand wood
pane windows of
a mansion
across the canyon.

I seen
hand trails that
never ended,
12 packs boxes
that hopped
away like
jack rabbits.

A Coyote on
Paseo whose only
want was to
live.

White owls
crashing through
ancient Oaks
just to let us
know we weren't
all there was.

I've captured  
the image in
memory of
a dozen
smiling faces
of my still free
minded friends
of my youth.

All seeing
things the
way they were
meant to be
seen.

All seeing
things the
way we'd
never
see them
again.

Have you gone where I've been?

Took the time to walk through the treasures of your mind,
like a gypsy in a junkyard.

Seen the tears and still indulged,
Smelled the blood and
made sure it wasn't your own.
Had it all and gave it away.

Do you close your eyes and
see images of the best of times.
Only to awake to the horror that is this.

Are you consoled in knowing
that she drinks with the GODS
as you battle with the believers.

Are you ready for the illusion to end?
Is there a method to your punishment?

Walk beside all of this,
Hand in injured hand
with all of this.

Do you feel that tingling
as you create me?

I've been here the whole time.
You were never alone.

This is why you are here,
this is why you have suffered.
This is what they need to see.

If not for you, do it for me.

These journeys
to my days
ago,  in the dark
death of night
or the blinding
shine of a life
giving cloudless
day.

All are but
cheap attempts
to **** the moment
of this day away.

And postpone the
problems that
always come
along with
the next.

I'm not one of those
**** CANCER people.

You can't Understand something if you say
**** it.

But I will say Cancer is something I would not wish
upon any living being.

It takes away too many people far before their time.
All the money and material possessions people hold so dear become instantly useless when Cancer comes along.

This is only the beginning for my
small families fight against Cancer.

I plan on learning all I can about this disease
it's origins, reasons and possible cures.

To say **** Cancer is in no way helping anyone's situation.
In order to make a difference in the battle against
Cancer you must first Understand what it is your dealing with.

To enter such a battle with a ******* attitude
will only keep you from truly making a difference
to those inflicted with it today
and those who will fall victim to it tomorrow.

Fill their tunnels before
they fill our streets
with blood.

They're hiding
God outside
the dome.

I don't feel
the need
to travel far
from
my home.

I married the
cold night
with a cities worth
of lights as my
witness.

Like those of
Babylon we wished
to be closest to the
Gods on our night
of promise.

Her natural brown
hair fell across
her flawless face
in thin lonely wisps.

The tip of
her nose turned
an unhealthy red
as the hill top winds
made their
way past.

We both
produced chilling
diamond cut
wedding bands
made from the ice of
our hearts.

Slipped upon
my finger she did
with the coldness
and a whispered
promise.

And I upon hers
with the words
we had
agreed upon.
"May My coldness
hurt no other but
you".

This is What I Do.

What I do brings
immortality.

The Words will
always outlast
the Labor.

It's been 7 years today since my last release from Prison.
The longest I've been home since I was 15.

I made a lot of bad choices along the way
most of which only hurt myself and my family.

Prison is no place to grow up in,
I learned how to shave in prison,
got my first tattoo, lost my first love
and learned what things like
loyalty and sacrifice really meant.

I wasted a lot of good years in there
most of them due to someone else's weakness,
fears and inability to accept the consequences
of their own actions.

It hasn't been easy and I've missed out on a lot.
But I can go to sleep and look at myself in the mirror
knowing that I never gave anyone up.
I remain loyal
and I'm still here.
Even though there are
those who wish I wasn't.

The pencil lead snapped with a sharp cracking sound.


He continued with a new sense of urgency as he scratched his message across the page.



The black cat bumped its black head against his ankles then brushed its black body across his saggy socks.


He instinctively reached down and scratched the cat behind her black ears without looking.


With his grey stubbled chin he pointed toward the page,


"What about yogurt the frozen kind????".


My smile hid the fact that I wanted to cry, I wanted to hear his voice again, I wanted him to look healthy again, I wanted him to get better.


I said "Of course whatever you need."

He blinked his dark circled, shallow eyes and held them closed for a second to long before nodding his now bald head.


He grabbed another pencil, his hand flew across the page as he wrote.


" Don't worry about me You're gonna be fine."

I  shrouded
my shame
behind blacked
out
sunglasses
and spiked my
lies with
deep
red wine .

I sat out front
on the large
concrete steps
and allowed my mind
to slip just to
see how it felt.

The occupants of
the Mad house
sat and moved
about around me.
Some held intense
conversations
with the air and
with all that wasn't
there.
Others picked at
scabs or picked
inside of noses.
Their polluted
minds wondered about
everything
except why I was
there.

A guy in furry
slippers and a women's
hat decided I was
there to give out cigarettes.
His face froze with
confusion and horror
when I told him
that I didn't smoke.
Another guy
danced on the sidewalk
in wide dramatic circles
to the music in his
head .
His eyes were
closed and his zipper
was down.

I stared across Beacon st.
along with some of the  Mad
and watched two winos
as they sat on a bench
in their park.
They each drank out of
***** paper bags,
an occasional
mumble exchanged.

The scavenging gulls
stood sentry
as the pigeons
picked at the
ground around
them.

I looked past the winos
through the palm fronds
and the eucalyptus.
A hulk of a container
ship slowly made
it's way along the
harbors main channel.
I thought about the
history of this place.

Where once sat a
library,a place to
seek out and to learn.
Now sits two winos
with their own
kind of knowledge.
And what was once a
YWCA a place for
recreation and youth.
Now serves as housing for
those whose minds have
wondered too far.
Those who dance on
Beacon st.,
alone.
To no ones music
but their own.

My hand shot straight out towards the wall like a shotgun blast as I laid on my sore back covered in a thick film of resiny drug addict sweat.
I was awake and it was hot as Hades in that fucken room.
I felt around the crumpled sheets and half dozen pillows and found my phone without waking the naked body next to me.

My eyes adjusted to the bit of sunlight that found its way past my blinds. The body next to me was wide at the hips with crude tattoos on both arms and an obvious cover-up on her upper back. I tried to make out the name she once loved and quickly gave up . She stirred as I tried getting a look at her.
Her face was covered with a thick mane of dark brown hair, I wanted to wake her but I couldn't recall a name. So I let her be and focused on the LCD screen in my hand.
There was a  picture of a half naked girl behind a thin red wall flashing "Download!"
The sucker I am had to do it ,and that's how my every move  was known for the rest of this ****** off ,weird *** day about to tell you about.

I started jerking or twitching about 4 months ago back when I started smoking the pook pretty much everyday.
Everyday.
Religiously like an alter boy and his ******* sessions .
I stopped sleeping normally and my appetite wanted only sweets or alcohol.When I did manage to burn myself out and pass out for a bit I noticed that I never dreamed.
I didn't dream that night either or the morning as I laid there in the 82 degree stuffy *** room listening to the sound of some useless fan squeaking and creaking it's way back and forth across the room.
Doing nothing but creating the illusion of relief from the hot summer morning.
The hips next to me didn't seem to mind the heat.
I reached over and aimed the cheap fat towards her wide ***
and positioned it to stay there.

September in the city of Los Angeles still felt like July in the 1990's when it seemed to always be hot.
Which probably contributed to the amount of senseless gang murders that spread all over the city during that time like locust.

Hot ,uncomfortable poor people get ******* pretty easy and its too dam hot to be fighting like some God Dam fools in the middle of the hot *** street.Those were  some ****** days and if you paid attention to the city ,you'll find it never really ended.
Everybody just stopped talking about it until it just went away and became normal.
Normal like that dogs gonna hit on the freeway,or normal like everyone in your building not speaking a word of English except the kids.
And they're all bad as Hell.

The last dream I had was in a co-ed detox somewhere the fucken Valley.I was all Doped up on Subutex and Adderall.
All the girls there were either strippers or **** stars or both.  Man....

Anyway,Yea so I got up with another of those weird *** jerks or spasms or whatever. I first noticed them while I was on a good nod you know when you're at that place you spent atleast 40$ trying to get to and everything about you just submits as the petals of the poppy protect you from all that you're dying , trying to forget.
I started to notice every time I fell down that rabbit hole of comfort and forgetfulness I was always being forced out of it by an uncontrollable kick of the leg or swing of the arm.
I mostly ignored it the way I tended to do when it came to things regarding my health. I treated my body like an old second hand car I had purchased with a bounced check.
Only now as I approached 40 did I began to worry.
But I quickly shrugged that moment of worry off as I got up and headed toward the head.

Could it be we've
all been trained
with bells?

Or is it the symbols.
The Thirty three's
and hand gestures.
The tridents and the
five pointed stars.
The eight
sided pentagons
and the eye
that's always
watching.

Is it that we've
all been fooled?

Could it be the Son
is nothing more
than the Sun of
the morning?

What they've done is absolutely genius they've purposely filled our minds with things that are beyond belief.

They've made things that in their world are everyday ,common events. But to us exist only in fantasy movies and horror books.
Things like magic and ritual.
Other worlds or maybe just another part of this world we've been kept from since the beginning.

When they die they simply fall out of our fixed point of view and move on to live out their days in their own version of heaven on earth.

Its such a great lie and our minds have been so greatly deprived of all of what this world has to offer.
That even if the lies were to be exposed the people the true victims of this lie wouldn't and couldn't bring themselves to believe that everything they thought they knew were nothing but deception draped in deep dark lies  .
All to preserve that other here that we are not allowed to see.
And our minds have been made unable to believe in.

My grade school
burned down
twice.
Once in the 1930's
then again  in
the 50's.
They rebuilt,
there were two
large black and white
framed photographs
of the school houses
before both fires
hanging in the
main hallway.
At some point in
the reconstruction
someone had decided
on two boys
restrooms.

The one at ground level
was always clean.
There were small white
tiles and fresh blue paint.
It always smelled like
pine cleaner,
never ran out of
paper towels.
There was always
sweet smelling
liquid soap in the
shinny silver dispensers.
There were doors with
shinny silver
locks on the stalls.
It was a timeless
space,
pristine and somehow
preserved.
Free and unscathed
by the ugliness of
the world.

Then there was the other
one.
The restroom below
ground in the basement.
There were ground
level windows
with round wire cages
over them.
The view of the
***** untied
tennis shoes
attached to
saggy socks and
scabbed knees.
The children
ran about
with purpose
over every inch
of the playgrounds
hot black top
as I'd try
to guess who's
feet were who's.
There were no doors on
the stalls,
yellow stains beneath
every leaky
******.
Smears of rust around the
faucets ,
a coarse hand soap
in the often broken
dispensers.
More fit for prisoners
than students.
It smelled like
**** and was always
cold.

I don't know why
one was always cleaner
than the other.
Maybe it was an
unwritten janitor
law.
Maybe they seen it
as somehow lower
than the other.
I always chose the
basement restroom.
It just seemed more
natural to me,
it made me feel strong,
made it all feel more real.

Now after so many
hardships as I sit with drink
in hand or lay down
while high on some drug
I can't seem to  help
but look back and
remember.
Then ponder the question.
"Have I always been
meant to live in such a *****,
harsh environment,
even way back then?"

Steer clear,
curve wide your ways
upon the artist,
the poet,
and the deliverer
of the inside view.

Unwelcome am I
upon your marble steps.
And unwelcome
are those with trained
thoughts within
these guarded walls
of the
City of the Heart.

Dare not tainted ones
cross my plains.

For my poetry and
my art will tear at
your flesh with an
Obsidian knife.
Whose only made purpose
is to ****.

The firmament held
true against the
rockets sent
by man.

It kept me
numb
and numb was the
only feeling I
was searching
for.

I used enough
in those days
to avoid
feeling any
type of emotion
for too long.

And when I
cried,
it was mostly
over a memory
of a time when
I should
have cried
but
was too numb
to care.

They talk about the
garbage like it
was treasure.

Man made
garbage.
Made in order
to keep the
creative side
from
creating.

Its all made
to uninspire
the otherwise
always
inspired ones.

They worry
themselves over
Trash.
Mass produced,
soulless,man made,
ball chasing,
over paid
Trash Heroes.

They're not my
Heroes.
My Heroes
didn't have time
to chase *****
and call it an
accomplishment.

These goals they
strive for all of
which were
created out
of nothing
for nothing at
all but to
numb the mind.

Trash.

They worry about
having more
while I secretly
worry about having
nothing more to say.

Conversations going
on all around me,
its torture.
I hear their
words and
can't help
but wonder if
they are hearing
what I'm hearing.

There's a vision
that stays with me.
A circle of
beautiful people
in stain free
clothes.
The kind of people
who throw
their heads back
before they laugh.
They're standing
around a street
person who wears
wadded up
news paper
inside his coat for
warmth.
They're tossing lit
matches at him as
he lays and sleeps
the sleep of the
invisible people.

For the longest
I dreaded the vision,
their cruelty is
unlike my own.
Theirs is inhumane
but legal and in most
cases it provides their
Godless insides
reason enough
to smile.

Mine is soul scaring,
memory aching,
and really only
me wanting to survive.
It leaves behind
deep embedded
stains in everything
that is you.

Now I find myself
no longer
fighting it off.
I need the
images the vision
provides me.

I welcome the
echo of their hollow
selfish laughter.
I take in the
whiteness of
their grinning
stain free teeth.

I need it all
in order to
try and
understand
their sickness.

As I continue
to survive  
amongst my
own
lonely madness.

Cars, Diesel trucks Motor bikes and Transit Buses, rebar and structural steel beams, sounds like fading sirens in the distance. Freeways and black topped school yards, city streets without enough tress, jails without enough beds.

Tents blocking sidewalks, cardboard castles where the forgotten go to smoke their prize.

You got millionares next to transients all waiting to be served. 6th and San Julian on another friday that happend to land on the 1st of the month.

Cops killing everybody, not even the innocent stand a chance, courtrooms sit silent as judges all retire to go play golf in the desert. Another innocent man awaits his execution, it'll be a grey day in hell when the blood of the wrong man soaks its entry way.
Beautiful girls and I mean Beautiful girls, start dancing as soon as they learn to walk in heels.

They know what works those filthy ******* who own everything and don't mind if you know it.
They want it this way.
They want her that way and her and her and even him.

City full of *** shops and not a dam thing left to smoke.
Cops still bust down doors like looters in a riot.
No ones has told them Nancy and her War is dead.

Leave where you left off right where you left it.
Lies don't deserve another chance.
I got a new way for you, I got to take some time to fill you in while pulling you out.

We are'nt going anywhere, this place wasn't built to explore.
See the mountain, see that tree stump, giants once ruled our world.

Slumped over again,
bad posture.
Running a fingertip around
the edge of a
highball glass.
Lost track of how
many times life has led
to this.

Drinking but far
from drunk.
Using and still
not high.
Alone and still
crowded by the
memories.

Took in all
of the empty through
bloodshot eyes
that hadn't been a
healthy white in
far too long.

Thinking,
lost so much.
Tried everything to
**** it all away.

Stabbed myself and
missed again.
Look forward to
the next fix,
need something.

No Longer worried
about the could
have beens.
Dance along like
a dollar girl
with all that has
been given.

Alone,better this
way.
Listen to the sound
of the refrigerator hum.
Call this music,
Frusciante.

Just me and the sound
of the ceiling fan whipping.

Passed out and
called it sleep.
I don't dream anymore,
the dreams gave
up on me
long ago.

Tossed and turned,
reached out and felt
no one there.
Laughed it off
then paced the room.
Went to the window
and peeked out at
the sacred night.

Back to the bottle and
filled the empty glass.
I began all of this alone.

The crowds demand
conversation.
The stammer robs
me of that.

Sat and drank,
sat and used.

I dont need the crowds.
I got Demons to keep
me company.

Got a second for me Los Angeles
I am the product of your wish less stars,
shot out street lamps and *** holed streets.
Your trigger happy
cops who stalk your darkened streets like
the true predators they are.

Spare some time for me Los Angeles
I've drank hard and laughed along your
beaches.
Lived on your toxic air.
Turned into a ghost and chased the high all through
your city streets.
I watched the beautiful
people stay beautiful beneath endless California
summers.
I fought the good fight against your
tan shirts within the coldness of your jail.

Stay with me for a moment Los Angeles
The dead are still celebrated throughout your
Palm lined streets.
Your city lights still bring colors
to my dreams.

A little longer Los Angeles
I still can't bear the thought of ever leaving you
even when all the signs around me say I should.

I don't expect any return from you Los Angeles
San Julian showed me the real you.
These scars on the crook of my arm proved the real you.

Trust in me Los Angeles
I'm with you until we fall into the sea.

Believe in me Los Angeles
I'm not an actor on TV.
My name is not on a star to
be spat and stepped upon.
Nor am I a heretic  
living behind a veil within
the comfort of your hills.

Don't forget me Los Angeles
I am the son of your southern most tip.
The son of the town named after the
Saint Pedro.
Whose roots are that of a
Lost Angel.
Lost within the deep darkness
of you.

My interests
began to fail
me as my
darkness
moved in for
the ****.

I blamed it
all on the
crescent Moon.
The bad
head case
of the
blues I
had been
Harboring
all dam year.

Then settled
on the fact
that it was
just another
washed out
wednesday
night.

Frusciante
once again
amazed
me as he
summoned the
Gods with
his guitar
and
sang to me
through
the magic
of the
radio.

My curiosity
began to
return as
the
comical
thoughts of
suicide
took to
their roost
inside
my head.

There they
always
await like
vultures atop
a San Pedro Cactus.

Patiently waiting
for the
next time
my mind
goes weak.

I opened
the door and cringed at my own actions.
The day was bright and most would
describe it as beautiful.

I **** the beauty of the day
with my dark sunglasses and
step out like a nocturnal little beast
being forced from the comfort of his burrow.

I see Poe's Ravens atop a stuccoed
apartment building all screaming
their curses into the wind.
Mad squirrels dashing across
live power lines as worried pigeons
cooed their concern.

Cars pass and all I can smell
is cheap laundry detergent  
dog **** and fuel beneath it
all the tickling scent of the salted sea.

A girl leaned against a wall
staring at her bitten down nails.
Her mismatched clothing and dyed close
cropped hair almost blended in with the graffiti .
I passed and I think she called me
lover .

The tall proud palms looked down upon
me as I avoided the cracks in the sidewalk.
I tried my hardest not to turn around and flee
back into the safety of my darkened room.

There's a group of daytime drinkers
angrily smoking outside the bar.
I instinctively reach deep into
my pocket and caress the buck knife
as I pass through the drifting
tobacco smoke .

One guy spits and another guy
toes the sidewalk with the tip
of his work boot.

I concentrate on their actions .
I don't care about their faces .

I'm just trying to move through the world like dust.
Hitching a free ride on the winds produced
by the passing cars and the passing memories.

I curse myself for fooling myself into trusting another day.
for I've learned that only the night forgives .
Only by the light of the not so distant
stars and not so distant moon
does this world truly appear inviting.