Even the Earth bulges
and wobbles like a fat man
stumbling through orbit.
The stars crash,
or sicken and die,
bloated like an alcoholic,
and galaxies devour
with gaping jaws,
fangs of light.

Everything perfect from a distance,
like a city from above.
Downtown L.A. from the hills,
peaceful and quiet.
We gaze out on a
clear spring morning,
nod and feel like Kings
surveying our domain,
and all is well.

But down in those trenches,
on skid row sidewalks
lined with tents
the junkies and ******
the insane castaways.

We drive by,
glance through
windows closed
against the stench of ****,
roll through red lights
until we reach a block
of clean glass and steel
skyscrapers, and breathe,
unclench our *******,
and shake our heads,
wondering how.

And is the view
from the hills
or a car window
or a skyscraper
on Bunker Hill
more true
than from the eyes
of a drunk on the sidewalk
on Hollywood boulevard
watching tourist feet
shuffle by
stepping on stars
in 200 dollar shoes.