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


beckons homeward


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