I delight in the darkness of 3a.m., alive in a city
of imposters that hide under the cloaks of angels.
I creep down sidewalks that give away secrets
of depravity, where slithering starlets thrive
among the open- handed welcome of men clamoring
for a cheap thrill under the glow of a marquee.
I write in the shadows of pock marked roads that ache
with the weight of broken aspirations, crumbling
under the gaze of billboards emblazoned
with images of plasticine blondes.
Los Angeles is the city that witnessed my first
sip of whiskey, the home that calls me back,
again and again, into the temptation of her embrace.
She is my guru, my jailer and my unsteady ground.
She swallows my words and gives me leave
to wear my masks in peace.