giving up

Nothing makes up for it: not the beats, not the crowd, not the clothes on the girls. Not the twinkling lights, not the fountain, not free champagne under the stars. Not the excess, not even the pain. The mystique of the old converted cottages has vanished. Instead a sleazy fog envelopes the bustling patio. effervescent energy melts into gold and black and tan and green, a smoggy twilight the color of money. Invisible busboys replace broken bottles instantly. tough black leather banquettes remain unmarred despite the stilettos that crush down on them nightly.

I try to calm down and take it all in. the green lights of the sign outside Miceli's, the bored salesclerk at house of pain (where I got my 2nd tattoo). The lights outside Mood nearly blind us. The other times I danced at Mood I found LA magic: free drinks, sketchy photographers, guys that we recognized busting sick moves on the dance floor. I linger by the bar, move in slow motion. TImbaland mixed with Mickey Avalon crowds into my ears and the beats push me into my friends. I don't lose myself here anymore. I remember a bowling alley and extract myself from the mass of bodies just before midnight. A whoosh of cool air propels me out the heavy double doors of the club. My vinyl platform heels glide over the dirty sidewalk stars to my car as I type out the address of my next destination into the web browser of my phone.


i find the real LA by leaving, as usual. I like to drive up the coastal highway, get lost in a canyon, trace the sillouhette of the mountain until it burns into my brain. I feel alive on PCH, on the beach. I soak up the glitter of the sun and watch it dance across the water. i feel the heat of dry brush and sand and asphalt melt into my skin. tonight I skim across the freeways in my tiny beat up Toyota. City stretches for miles. I parallel park in front of a discount grocery store in Highland Park and tiptoe across the faded carpet of a former bowling alley. Slow molasases pours through my veins and I float up to heaven on a lazy guitar riff. It feels like salvation under silver spray painted stars in the almost empty bar. I try not to lie.

LA swallows you up and spits you out raw. It's either magical or fake or somewhere in between. The magic happens nightly when I believe the fake to be most real. I sail up the highway, coast on the left, canyons on the right, to find serenity I hate getting overwhelmed in the rush to be the next somebody somwhere. Somone else can have that. I’ll take the quiet.

LA is a city of broken dreams that live on in a graveyard of graffittied alleys and freeways and late night bathrooms. It's where dreams go to die. She lies naked on a bed, wrapped in a white fluffy comforter, mind racing. rock music pumping. I grasp tightly to shards of dreams.

Of course I get caught up in the magic of a show. in the light of the diner, in the stars’ faint glow. Of course, when we’re apart, it fades.

refracted light

and the noise and the boys and the hands and the lives that we live when we lie and can’t pass the time alone. you’re made of sparkly star dust, your wings keep time as they beat against mine. you’re a laugh and a smile that I don’t get to see. you hide from everyone, lately, even me. I could try again but i choose to come here instead where the fairies wear boots, stomp around in the night. They don’t have that holy california light. My city makes me sad, its all I ever had. The concrete breaks the silence. Where’s your voice when I need it most? Dulled into the speakers of my phone. Another goodbye, another plane trip. I’m trying to keep my grip on reality, trying to plant my foot, choose the path today. Open bar feeds sick little chicks. Sandy, young things, suck your dick. Don’t be afraid, we’ve all been there except now I’ve started to really care for you, for me, for anything that could be.

not losing myself in anyone: just the gentle curve of the n train as it lumbers into the sleeping city. above ground, so that i see the glint of the subway's silver roof in the 4 am moonlight; in the empty hollow voice of a nameless singer who recalls lonely streets and decrepit city dives; a bottle filled with coke and jack, downed quickly while looking for a taxi in astoria; the brilliant pain of a strobe light and high heels, when nothing matters but the movements of my body across from a boy.

evolve evolve with the past, with the present. move forward into the future while screaming out into the abyss below. hold tightly to the ghost if you must. I will not sink back into the cushy past of whispered kisses and dreams we shared. a robotic army marches over the hill at dawn stomping feet keep time with the second hand of the tower clock. under their wing of presupposed confidence they've got me with dreams marred by the realization that even those who want to know me best still don't get inside. a whispered kiss, a shaking hand, the heavy fragrance of thai jasmine just after sunset--I just want to wake up in the same place for months at a time. with my toothbrush and my clock. I just want to hear the radio boys and know where I am, aware of my location without looking out the window, without searching for a mental template to match the view outside.

I told her I felt like I just woke up as the elevator pulled us through the late afternoon heat. she said you need prozac. I kind of agreed even though we just met.