I like it here. When the plane banked over endless blocky rows of gray roofs, I felt welcome. The traffic was too small for me to see. The delineation between the blue sky and the burnished pollution was beautiful. This place is made of ghosts, soaked in our culture. A creation of form and fancy as sweeping as the graceful curves of the freeways. I sat waiting at LAX for hours, watching people. I sat where the cameras must have gone in the first scene of Night On Earth. That I was a sight to folk at the L.A. airport ropes me some points.
We had dinner in a towering dome of a spaceship restaurant and we drove to Venice to show me the beach. Today I’m going to try and find The Strip, where the galleries are, where the concerts play. I want to pry at history. I know the music, let me find the places. I slept last night and I dreamed.
It feels like being home, there’s so many people. The aggregate tumbles on for miles out of sight. Industrial lights blazing like stars, I can’t wait to see the daytime. Cars smoothly slipping down the cloverleaf curls, it’s thrumming with electricity. Deathless, this place is deathless. The softest recognition feathers into my brain and I love it.
I’m going to catch a train and wander alone. I should go now, before I see myself.
Jump in straight, the fire won’t hurt because I know what it tastes like.
I suspect I will be like a poet, sewing stones to my body with every day here.
The souls best poison is love.