THE backalleys crawl with amputees, lesbians of convenience who
trade loose talk amongst hypervigilant plastic dashboard trolls
from the empire of cinderblocks and tarpaper – it’s all sex with ambitions of revenge –
dust below and an angry god above,
his devil wreathed in tangled smoke traffic lights hung
like nuremburg defendants chatter “abandon Marxian abstraction!
forego your dusty polemic –
unveil this in your history’s wrathful mirror!” –
for everything here is illustrated and animated
even though it serves no purpose and yet while you are sparking cinders in the decimated night
(all this your cool play with cigarettes), giant white crucifixes from hillside cemeteries
come to life each night to do the work of the thing you permit yourself to call lord.
There’s good bones and a heroin-hook narcissism in the celebrity lockup,
pornographic argot in the bughouses. p. hilton is the new patty hearst,
playing five dollar chips into theatrical morphology and vile and co-dependant third-rate
talent show hopefuls, wrapped in rags of entitlement
and a false dream of falseness all tied up in a conflicted sense of magic,
or some dark, Blakean machine
ripe with insinuated nakedness pearly breasts,
ruby resilient nipples or their steeple fingered Christishness,
O! all those midnights on your knees for supernatural illumination.
All for that kayfabe fifteen minutes some motherfucker owes you.
I dream, in a $40 motel on Sepulveda
I was a butterfly who dreamed they were me.
gutted by puppeteers and hustlers. but like all dreams in this city of dreams,
it is but a persuasive lie.
the one truth that is endures is that nothingness is the only thing we are prepared to meet on its’ own terms