The Way We L.A., a poem I wrote a while ago
We know the jokes about traffic,
about how we only eat kale and seeds,
and that we’re all ditzes or (at the very least) all of us are uptalkers.
Sunshine is really all that encouraging,
or that anybody could call 450 square feet home,
or having no yard (read: no yard work) could possibly satisfy.
the hour at the end of January
when the air is suddenly noted by night-blooming jasmine.
that crazycheap (somewhat dimly lit) sushi place in
Koreatown (on 7th) – where the proprietors speak no English
you point at pictures to order
(it’s way better than Roku. And you don’t have to plan 2 weeks ahead to eat there.)
We are unconcerned with our tans.
We cut each other’s hair.
None of us gives a fuck what you think of our ink and metal
(I didn’t get all these holes and scars for any body else, thanks.)
We listen to each other
We stay friends for decades
We shop second-hand
We are good neighbors
We play fair
We fuck well
We drink deep
We stay up too late
We smile at each other.
We totally walk in L.A.
amid the history lessons told by
the Anjac Fashion Buildings
and old banks-become-lofts
we look up.
And we get it.
We go all the way back, we were here before the freeways.
We are made from cement and seawater.
We are formed of smog and glass
There’s sand in my shoes
but when I turn them upside down,
it spills out as a castle.