between two buildings on Hollywood Boulevard there is an abandoned plot of land where another once stood, and it is the only clear view of the Hollywood sign from the street. the most sought after view in Los Angeles caught, perfectly, in failure
Stood back from the crowd slightly, a light
face amidst the many in the acropolis, his gaze
captures mine. Fine features alight, he is a flame bright
in the summer sun, my greater half. The myriad ways
the mind plays over the less than gentle grasp
of his fingers entwined with mine consumes me. Days
are lost to the pleasure of his presence, his body mapped
and charted by my hands—not for conquest's sake,
but to know the certainty of companionship at its core.
The world is to be conquered, but the heart, a maze
to rediscover again and again, a mutable space to explore
the very breadth of closeness that inclines him to stay.
Although I've
pushing upstream
against the current
of people
spring afternoon
spent fishing
for compliments
waterfall
on my shoulder
spilled drink
drowning
at the water fountain
to save money
anticipation
waiting 90 minutes
for the ride to break
shimmering bird
takes flight—
a child's balloon
biathlon:
long-distance walk
to drive home
a love song
to the neighborhood
evening breeze
two dogs
awake at nightfall
video calling
crows lurk
on the power lines
gossiping
two cats skulk
among shadows
waiting for sunrise
so they can slumber
together
Cold nights are experienced through the ears,
the constant cricket chirping ceaselessly
over rolling rumbles from rushing airplanes
overhead, and the mirrored inhale, exhale
of a car rolling up, and past. For suburbs,
it's something resembling serene, silence—
or as close to it as cities get—sitting soft
on slanted shingles. When some solemn
evening gets pierced by crow's calls, the cold
sinks deep into the cracks of the night's
foundation, a caterwauling that casts
the night into cauterized stillness. Come
morning, will the crows still call?
I work from my bed; that's not
a metaphor. I have a desk and
no drive to sit at it. Movement
is impacted by various factors, not least
being the comfort of you. Why should
I work at a wooden desk when
I can work from your warmth instead?
It's a coat with many pockets, each
filled with a different time and place. It's
standing outside the Lincoln Center
realizing your parents won't make it
to the concert you flew cross-country
to perform in. It's going on stage and singing
to them anyway. It's standing in a church,
shivers running up your spine because
for the first time you've created music,
real music. It's crossing a two-lane street
in a suit and tie after packing half a decade
of a life into the family van. It's waking
at nearly thirty years old to find yourself
carrying the joy of a discovery made
at sixteen years old. It's sticking your hands
into these pockets as you
The opposite of sleep is disrespect. The light
is yellow; you ran it. If you're early, you're on
time, if you're on time, you're late. If you're late,
please break glass in case of emergency. Work
starts at 9 am, which means you need to wake
at 8:30 to have time to shower, 8 to make
breakfast, 7:30 to wash dishes. 7 for good luck,
6 for the max amount of sleep you can get
tonight. In a darkroom, people are left alone
for hours. The light is red for a reason.
Photographs are developing. You should be, too.
Each time I see her, more lines
have manifested on her hands:
one here, for New England, for
another trip to her aging sister
who doesn't fly and hardly
remembers anything; one there,
for Texas, for her youngest
who got married late, had kids
late, and moved soon after;
one for her grandkids in California,
and one for her grandkids
across town;
she treasures them,
this map she's created of herself—
she runs her fingers along the lines,
tracing trails as she talks, re-reading
the routes of her history, and
at the end of the conversation
creating another that extends just
slightly past the one before.