February 7, 2018

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.


Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Please reload


June 30, 2019

June 29, 2019

June 27, 2019

June 26, 2019

Please reload