Enough ink has flowed over your jagged streets…but here goes:
I can still see my dreams – scattered on the 405, where parched in the drought they stay alive – on fumes.
The choking abated, I patiently waited – watched, walked and dreamed. But in a city of cars, the sprawl – swallowed me up and now that I left, I can come back and bleed through the cracks – that still know me.
Such an odd feeling – the smoggy hills I drove through, the afterthought spires of a downtown admired – for the recently acquired – Starbucks and typewriter adorned cafes – a city mired – a funeral pyre that still keeps my soul warm, on wisps of dreams that I’m sure will never die.
The Silverlake exit, my loft on a roof, the Hollywood hills with a wrap around porch – the birth and the death of the bands and 12 moves. The studio nights and the days – where you pull up the sun, from a late night drug run, feeling her pain as she squints through the haze – in this overrun maze.
It’s like I never left and yet, like I never stayed, not just in place but in mind – like I never lived here – a city of make believe – crowded like a purgatory of dreams – some that should stay and others that leave but the traffic’s a creep. A slick bus stop city – the driver like Mulholland Drive, you survive – if you crash once or twice – back on the bus – the one I heard I should take, real seems so fake – the pockets of dreams I sewed and re-seemed, shifted, transferred and shared – from the hills to the sea.
The push and the pull, the start and the stop, the rich and the poor; has beens and never will bes, what’s your name again and can you help me make it, take it – this youth, it’s proof that You’ve paid your dues – right?
That’s how it works, they peddle that tune and the bitter and blue — sing it to themselves on Sunset Blvd. Humming in time, Hollywood signs – your name in lights, yeah it feels nice — but landlords know better than to take rent in highs – so soak your vice – in martinis on rooftops, count your calories, bleach blond hair, surf rider laissez-faire, the world out there – can wait. It’s not great till it’s scarred – in the streets, in the cracks, that still know me.
(image by Bruce Cooper)