There’s Too Many Things Written About L.A.

She’s a baby sitter who accepts more kids than she can handle –
she needs the money I guess…

Her nipples: raw
Her children: satiated

I fear she has started to change me.
I know this because I started talking more about who I used to be…
which by law, would suggest I’m someone else now.
I finally remembered to look at the table (i’ve been playing for hours) –
Judging by the chips in front of me,
I’ve been playing without my consent.
I’m not losing, so I’ll order another drink and pretend I know what’s happening,
…you know, like they do in the movies?

She smells of baked gum and transplanted palm trees.
Her diner booths and street cars are stained with Orson Welles’ pomade.
She hugs her heroin addicts as they cuddle against her cracked sidewalk slabs,
but don’t worry and thanks for calling; a concrete crew will be there within the week.
She ripped my necklace off and fed it to the gulls,
burying my childhood in the lost soul of a Santa Monica sailor.
It slowly fills itself with bilge and brine, as this feathered quintessence,
this harborer of my necklace, desperately fishes for a little less twine.