Tag Archives: this day does not exist

Message on a Windshield

new Lexus, just purchased
not even registered
she pulled from her trust fund
car payments are absurd
inside it there’s leather,
TV, and heated seats
no covers at the dealer
dumbass parked on the street
 
don’t park, don’t park so
don’t park so close to me
 
don’t park, don’t park so
don’t park so close to me
 
her friends are so jealous
they’re making less than ass
sometimes it’s not so easy
to befriend lower class
temptation, frustration,
a rift that they can’t patch
it’s moot now, she’s crying
her car’s already scratched
 
don’t park, don’t park so
don’t park so close to me
 
don’t park, don’t park so
don’t park so close to me
 
chipped paint on front bumper
somebody’s gonna die
who the fuck would do this?
the accusations fly
its no use, drama queen
wants to jump in a lake
might as well drown and die
like Swayze in Point Break
 
don’t park, don’t park so
don’t park so close to me
 
don’t park, don’t park so
don’t park so close to me
 
don’t park, don’t park so
don’t park so close to me
 
don’t park, don’t park so
don’t park so close to me
 
or else I might hit you by accident
when I’m backing up, I’m so sorry…

Seal on a Bus

Last night I slept to ocean sounds, and watched
across the water as the whales confessed
their love in song, slapping their massive tails
against the surface after each bellow.

And all upon the shoreline were engulfed
in sleep or love, drifting in and out of
consciousness as ripples from the whale songs
lapped up against the drowsy sands; except

a solitary seal, awake, barking
syncopatically, forced from the beach
for disrupting their aquatic concert.
And slowly he fled inland; and often

he tried to make songs of his own, waiting
for someone to beckon him home.

Nature Poem: or, Things Other People Love About Los Angeles

The irony of the LA River,
its homeless growing
old under each bridge,
the sparse swamp grass.

The hills, lit up like a forest
fire, tires and fences running
coyotes into the streets
of the valley.

The Santa Anas, airy cliché,
always a surprise, burning
away the last hope of mild
summer afternoons.

The three days of solid rain
each year, ruining the lives
of millions of people, one
weekend out of fifty-two.

The canyons at dusk, stark,
majestic, dangerous
in rush hour traffic, cars
overlooking the precipices.