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lying on Venice Beach reading The Stranger, which i read in college which was ten years ago. i squint through the sun at all these bodies and the skin around my eyes creases. it folds into an origami seagull and flies over all the bodies stretching and rippling and flexing and shining.

a big green kite. a little boy chasing a big green kite on the beach as his father flies it like a skilled pilot. it dives, shoots back up. the kid lunges for it but it’s always just out of reach. he laughs when he misses. the Santa Monica mountains loom over me and the…

your aunt sends me a video of you galloping in cowboy boots on the sidewalk. you’ve just left your mother at the hospital but you don’t seem sad. you’re too young for that. now, you gallop in your dress and cowboy boots. your reddish blonde hair bounces as you gallop. there are colorful pinwheels stuck…

midway through the hike we get to the overlookand sit down at the bench. you’ve been therebefore but i haven’t, so while you got out thesandwiches i admire the view:the rows of trees below us like stadium seating,massive homes tucked within them sporadicallyand way out beyond that, the coastline at SantaMonica Beach, Will Rogers, the…

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they say depressed people should clean their rooms but i can’t bring myself to throw out the trash that he and i made. the takeout containers, the bottles of booze and dirty outfits… my brother is gone now but he was here. for three short and bright days he was here with me and we…

yes i know i’m killing myself but nothing good comes withoutsacrifice, so now – a wine buzza cigarette pinched between my lipsas the blues fill my earsand the sun rests its hand on my chest.the wind down Overland whistles through the chambers of my heart, and this is the trade: life to escape death for just…

yes, my Athens is my Athens and my LA is your Athens, how long before we get there and will they let us stay? look! my body trembles into poems! about Athens and death and the short dresses of brown women! smoke in the cafe and moonlight on the page. down the way ouzo pours…

“mashed potato, you can do the twist!” and she doesn’t twist but she shakes her hips as she punches the register. i smile. my eyes land on a butterfly perched on the back of her neck. she turns and looks at me, smiles back. “ready to order?” “i think so,” i say, “could i get…

writing on the can in a luxury hotel. i look at my mustache in the mirror and think i look pretty good with it. people piss and shit and fart all around me. this too is a poem.