MORTAL LOS ANGELES
One part bourbon
Half part lemon juice
Honey to taste
Crystal tumbler
Drink to the never forgotten
bronzed racehorse Sea Biscuit.
Drink to the San Gabriel Mountains
hosting the races. Ask to be embraced.
Sea gulls gracefully usher
in clubhouse junkies, giddy chicks
gathered for good odds, finding the edge,
iced tea, Monte Cristo with ketchup.
Broken-hearted shuffle into Clocker's Corner:
hunched, chain-smoking, hot coffee thermos,
Daily Racing Forum underarm,
squeezing sweaty palm roll of hundreds.
Four thousand bets placed to erase her memory.
Leg wraps and blinkers on—20:1, if only,
but they let it ride. How it slipped away.
And her memory still comes back.
Nearby glazer's handy work cracked through
a lead glass window of a 90 year-old
Pasadena cottage whose A-frame charm
hangs like a guillotine held by a hair.
Released slices the smooth, yolk-yellow
skin of Meyer lemon, no sound, no fray
just glistening hard luck juice—
sacrificial citrus fruit for bourbon drink.
What wished the Pepperdine dropout,
intoxicated, unemployed graduate,
Ph.D. streetwalker in tight jeans,
tattooed Salvadorian immigrant
outside a brick and mortar Echo Park
apartment building kitty corner
to Seven Seas eatery threatening nausea
from turned ceviche and piss water beer?
That clinking cubed ice bourbon drink.
They’re in Elysian Fields with a let-go lover;
uncomfortable walking eucalyptus-lined,
dusty paths along drying hillsides.
Hills that obscure fucking oilcloth-drifters,
empty, decaying aluminum beer cans,
cheap condoms parting wild grasses’
hues of cinnabar, mustard, moss, tan.
Pure signs of their very own Eden:
sultry, elastic wind tenderly touching
fat cheeks held like a girl’s first
porcelain doll. Illusions shattered
David Lynch ugly muck—spare the vices,
desire manipulations of poor readers.
Sputtering of a white biplane breaks insecure silence.
Ocean rush of the 5 Freeway hidden hums,
“There is no heaven, no hell. Just here.
Who are you and who am I? Just go.”
Chaparral fragrant, drought-tolerant
shades blue belly lizards, quail rustle
medicinal cowboy cologne, white sage.
Spring of wine darkens pulverized granite:
meaty, jammy, yeasty from bottleneck.
Fractured earth, dampened soil gushing, cascades
mad women running naked in limestone ruins.
Frenzied, drunken, petite elfin-dancers
falling easily into discontent, disappointment.
No crash pad and no museum membership—
closer to spontaneous homeostasis.
Vista sin vista spiraling around
lanky palms that stand guard
Hollywood Hills, narrow trails’
gnarled lemon, wisps of lavender,
banana, pine, and mesquite smoke.
Blind curve tragedy averaged
time again: crimes of passion, narcissism,
fortunes won and lost in modernity.
Surging city pulse travels uphill
to lovers parked at lookouts,
in convertibles with whitewall tires,
leather bench seats, tequila flasks;
making it in backseats under
fog-veiled street lamplights.
No view, just lovers born inside
time and space existing everywhere.
Hidden, pimpled demigods of Los Angeles
sparkle under freeway bridges,
ravines, and bike shops filling city crevices.
Six thousand monikers until R.I.P.
Malt liquor libations over fresh graves.
“Cartoon” and “Erie” taken by AK-47 fire:
surreal, licensed domestic warfare
indolent officers allowing friendly fire between
greedy conquistadors turned gangsters.
Skyscrapers transcend the unpleasant downtown.
Rows of candy-colored, rainbow delights of
Madagascar vanilla, gran cru chocolate, sea salt caramel
displayed in thick glass, large aquarium cases
fortified with brass railing, white marble.
Flush-faced, eager eaters frantically chew the bit,
dart eyes: relentless individualistic jockeying
for coveted seats under recessed lights,
cacophony of easy pop rock—dopamine flood.
Survival stimulus satisfying primitive urges
in curvaceous, effervescent fermented
cereal grains, head thick dizzy euphoria.
Carport coverage, valet curb service,
hot date, long legs, red dress,
$18 pie, pork chops, pompadour, gold chains.
Excessive accessories and stilettos
balancing their designer pendulum yokes:
Chanel, Hermes, LV, Fendi, and Gucci.
15-pound medallion just right gait
dodging white clad, wing-footed servers
tossing spinach, Roquefort, slender Champagne flutes.
Sweeping up broken glasses under shrill laughs
delighting in the feast, the membership’s expense.
Oteniel, the Mayan king, tosses dough high
until thrust dexterously into the stone oven.
750 degrees Fahrenheit enough to turn flesh
to gold leaf in eyelid rapidity, but better burned
than buried and watered with Colt 45.
A layered cake has the same ingredients on each tier—
the day is 24 hours long and the sun goes down for all
in Los Angeles town.
[If you made it this far in reading my epic poem, you're a champ! Thank you for reading!]