poetry

Jesus Christ Superstar

Jesus Christ

Superstar I named my

printer this last week

she was into hard knocks

and bottled water

vegan donuts

and pilates

I typed this out

and printed it out

on Jesus Christ

Superstar this

week because

I thought it was

real and

evocative of

certain persons

I may or

may not know

Standard
poetry

two square miles

we get on Los Feliz

drive West

towards squinting sun shards

hands on the radio

hands on restless backseat feet

knee on the wheel

“I like that you can drive with your legs”

he always says.

our car is forced downward,

south down Western

through ugly

through old motels, ice cream peach

through pharmacies

through street people

between Mc Donald’s and abandoned parking lots

turn left on Santa Monica, no

make that Fountain,

it’s faster I say.

east bound

blaring scientology blue

hospitals, one then another

npr voices, imitations, full bodied laughter

we cross over Sunset

sighs all around

freedom found as

Hyperion

beckons homeward

Standard
poetry

this face

not a precise face

no symmetry

character maybe

the kind of face that changes

with light, with food, with climate

with mood

a face harsh and blaring

no hiding this face

sharp angles and mouthy

hard hearted cut-throat

but really not really

pretending familiar

between eyebrows

anxious tell-tales

the kind of face that changes

with sleep deep and dreaming

with blood pressure

no symmetry

not a precise face

Standard
poetry

on yesterday and being alone

I was sitting on the couch reading a book in soft late afternoon sunlight wondering and waiting for nothing in particular. The familiar creaking of bad suspension drifting in through the hallway that leads to the street. Swooshing of car tires on hot asphalt punctuated with break squeaks or the inserted chirp of a nearby bird, a pigeon maybe. Do pigeons chirp? Does anything in this city chirp?

She told me yesterday that her husband had died the week before. All alone in that apartment with him for years, alone besides the dog, I don’t know his name but he is white and small and quiet, just like her. She walked him every hour, I would see her in front of my window out in that late afternoon sunlight, but in other light too, less buttery light, louder light.

This whole time I’ve lived here, right next to her, and never knew there was a husband inside, silently breathing in-and-out-in-and-out on her bed, waiting patiently for his last in-and-out-and-in-and-out, waiting for his own eternal slice of afternoon sunlight, rich and golden, thick, enveloping him like maple syrup on steamy hot pancakes.

Well I guess he died just last week. And now she is all alone, at 75, all alone in that apartment with that dog and the deafening sound of her own inhales, her own exhales, oneness. The peculiar thing was, the first time she spoke to me was yesterday, and the first time I saw her teeth and saw her lips twisted into a smile let alone any expression at all was yesterday too. So maybe she feels better this way.

Anyways I was reading a book, sitting, thinking to myself that I had a stomachache when all of a sudden I was reading the word “stomachache” on a page of mismatched letters and foreign words, and feeling quiet alone myself. I decided that pigeons do not chirp, although my son tells me that they make their own milk, which sounds like quite and accomplishment for a bird in this city or any bird at all really.

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