Mon, 09 Feb 2004

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lost (en las calles de los angeles)

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(author's note: as you can see, my title is pretty much a rip-off of Barbara's series on calles [fundación][los orientales][moreno y oscura][del consejo práctico y los dolores y trastorno de tensión postraumática]. what follows is an unmanageable, undecipherable piece of mind-blather that fails to encapsulate the inexplicable sense of alienation I experienced today, wandering aimlessly through the streets of the city of my birth.)

city overlaid map in my mind forking roads, to sea and sky like double-vision the eyesight of a drugseeker or a prophet

Sunset and Hollywood where the road splits the city splits eastside vs westside reina de los angeles, her comforting embrace despite the depradations of the conquistador and the gringo vs lost angels, fallen angels, cast down from heaven, thrown up from hell the hookers and the pimps the dealers, the pirates, the bandits in their suits and ties and their slick-backed hair

they claim that two things cannot occupy the same space and so my memories must be bulldozed the ground razed and wiped clean tabula raza build upon the rubble even as the ground shakes

Santa Monica and Sunset even here, still, the rumor of the lost Great Road running to the sea like a river of chrome and reaching back to the cold and hard places through the unforgiving desert and the dry and dusty plains 2,000 miles of generations past, and era falling down the memory hole to where my heart froze solid and shattered once and for all

I am futiley picking up the pieces still

signs of renewal and decay phoenix dawn, ashes to ashes childhood memories flicker and fade a Polaroid picture in reverse dissolving into the murky white gone no, never was

where did I come from not so much forgetting but simply not wanting to know how much pain and suffering seeking ignorance and yet circles in circles blind spots and the brink the edge

Hyperion, Fletcher, Silver Lake lost in the winding rills and ravines through the rolling hills pockets of silence and sweet bliss the reservoir shimmering in the sun the lone house on the hill a voice sings softly in my heart and still I dare not be stirred

all I can see is the edge

Vermont and Los Feliz in the shadows of the verdant hills in this land of no seasons and the watchtower upon their brow lonely citadel gazing upon the city below the stately forbidding houses enclosed in their fences and gates do they keep us out, or trap those within?

so many years run together fast-forward then rewind warp and jumble images lashed together with twine like so many wet bundles of newspapers and magazines thrown haphazardly on the porch

where am I going? in this space that is no space time suspended like a bridge that touches no shore true north, when there are only lies half-truths, rationalizations, and spin control only the mountains tell me in their majestic silence the grand hulking bleakness snow-touched and mighty dwarving the towers of Babel the ringing towers south, and east, and west K-town and mid-Wilshire, Bunker Hill downtown, Hollywood and Century City cold and gleaming like pikes and swords encircling, as I gaze out from the ramparts

Vermont and Franklin obscurity and glimpses of the stars in these hidden spaces I have trod where dreams bloomed unbidden in my heart riotous flowering colors without roots I let them wither and die

I am king of no country not even the barren wastelands of my heart nor the wind-scoured deserts in my soul not so much emptiness, but nothingness not vacuum but non-being like slipping out of a dream I wonder am I figment of someone's imagination? a character in God's dream? and if He should awake?

Glendale and Hyperion upon the ancient bridge across the concrete river dry like witch's tears dry as the wellsprings of my soul I stare at Mt Wilson black giant staring back down upon the valley prickling with antennae like some giant insect queen

my lone beacon in the night shimmering and flickering as the February winds gust the spirits on the wind keen and moan and still I fear that in the high places even there, I cannot find what I seek the things that I have lost not the flowers, but the roots of a dream

19:57:28 9 Feb 2004 > /poetry > permalink > 0 comments

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