(some
perceive the glass as half empty
some
perceive it to be half full
i
believe the glass doesn’t exist
-john
young)
took
a bus on lincoln ave
from
santa monica
to
rose ave
could
smell the beach
when
i got off the bus
started
walking toward
ocean
front walk
turned
on speedway instead
no
reason
but
when i came upon
that
paining of jim morrison
on
a building
i
saluted with my flask
and
drained it
last
time i was here
was
the third thursday
of
last year’s september
venice
art crawl
now
i just walk speedway
till
i replace my flask
with
a 200 ml bottle
at
the first available
slip
it in my pocket
decline
to pay the dime
for
a bag
and
get on the venice boardwalk
feel
the cold ocean breeze freeze
my
sensibilities
i
learned long ago liquor
doesn’t
really keep you warm
and
zip up my jacket
take
out my cigarette packet
while
my mp3 randomly selects
“you
get what you give”
by
new radicals
i’m
not impressed by much anymore
but
i’m near wave crest ave
watching
the night’s black ocean
as
i raise my bottle in toast
to
the layers of los angeles
and
quote jim morrison
“i
see your hair is burning
hills
are filled with fire
if
they say i never loved you
you
know they are a liar”
they
say you are not
artistically
relevant
until
you are in some kind
of
studio
i’m
not interested
because
that shit is tested
by
ostriches that bury
their
heads in the sand
i
am as l.a. as you get
without
the paparazzi
the
interviews where i have to say
how
horrified i am by world hunger
how
we need to put more democrats in office
so
they can tax the working class
to
provide for those in need
who
can’t eat like me
after
signing a multimillion dollar deal
this
has put me on the l.a. map
and
makes me and all my opinions relevant
fucking
celebrities
idiots
idolizing ignorance as an
indigenous
species
i
light another cigarette
and
blow it in the face of l.a.
yeah
me
and l.a.
i
quote three days grace
“i
hate everything about you
so
why do i love you?”
fuck
it
where’s
my bottle
i
want to strip naked
run
full throttle
into
the california sea
but
this time of year
the
water is too damn cold
so
i sip
further
zip up my jacket
and
slip back into the obscurity of
the
dark streets of decay
where
atheists still pray
to
the patron saint of lost causes
light
is only good for casting shadows
which
vanish until the next neon distraction
and
poetry permeating platitudes for pain
is
not art
i’m
only into artists who want to urinate
on
the audience
that
has come to view
the
voices in their head
they
have placed on paper
canvas
or celluloid
i’m
sure bukowski hated us all
but
he was always willing to take our money
bottles
of booze are expensive
when
you buy them everyday
anyway
this
poem is as pointless at this night
but
i don’t have a pretense of a point
to
anything
unless
you consider pointing out the pointless
a
point
but
who among us isn’t lapping
away
at a liquid of lies
i
flip off the waves
the
moon
ocean
ave
and
decide for the rest of this night
i
will be quiet
***
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