A Poem Born in L.A.

Like a true son

Of Los

It keeps rising

Like a true heir

Of Los

It keeps lifting

Ocean grains,
Earth rains,
Desert range
Stars changed

Worlds estranged
Land rearranged,

Renaming
Los.

Los Cuentos,

Es tiempo.
Lo Siento
Los Angeles

It’s

Cuentos’

Time.

J.T.

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Look up from the deep, the static

Gold Line, Chinatown; Winter 2019
Gold Line, Chinatown; Winter 2019

All you see is what was,

what is
apparently,
enough.

Lungs inhaling, people slipping
past a line.

Space collapsing on itself;
time churning, slipping, sulking.

Light pulsing,
passing,
placing,

itself

on a face it’s seen before, or a billion of them

Only to leave them,
fading endlessly
into darkness.

Or what’s called darkness,
death, or a dead end. The abyss.

A dark point; or a point within itself.

A point not going anywhere, lying still in the middle of space.

A point trapped within itself, frozen,
suspended, sucked of all its time.

A point alive only when it’s named, but at no other point in time.

No other–
What’s the point

Getting larger and larger into emptiness.

Universe unfurling into a big empty nothing.

All forms of life fading, disintegrating from light, proceeding into the darkness

Fragmenting into space

outer,
empty,
space.

Just space, taking space, creating space,
transforming

gone.

space.

Lying amid a billion other empty spaces just like it.

Nearly obliterated like them.

Nearly breathless, though still heaving.

still funneling consciousness

percolating information

still transmitting noise into

this.

Pointlessness unto a curb. Endless roads. But for now.

Breaking ground. Broken.

A howl throttling from eons away

A vision spiraling through blood in Open Veins:

How tomorrow we rise again.

Look up from the deep, the static

All of time and space,

The stars.

No matter how they are,

They are still ours.

J.T.