Gold Line, Chinatown; Winter 2019

Look up from the deep, the static

All you see is what was,

what is

Lungs inhaling, people slipping
past a line.

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

Light pulsing,


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 darkness

Fragmenting into space


Just space, taking space, creating space,



A point lying amid a billion other empty spaces just like it.

A point nearly breathless, though still heaving.

A point nearly obliterated, but still funneling

A point; a consciousness

still percolating information

transmitting noise into


Pointless roads. Until now.

Breaking ground until BROKEN

A howl throttling from eons away

A vision spiraling from the blood of these open veins,

A dream:

HOW tomorrow we rise again.

Look up from the deep, the static

All of time and space,

The stars.

They are still OURS.


On the Block Redux

Mom's in Los Angeles; Winter 2018
La Casita en Los Angeles; Winter 2018

When the sun falls

And the shadows unfurl

Behind rusting bars

The heartbeats of home lie in snippets of dim blue pulsing.

Across their peeling adobe,

The wind just trots,

But behind them,

A blue screen blares:

“The world
Plunders further
To rot.”

When sunlight returns,

From the adobe,

These tiny creatures emerge.

Stretching out like the hues,

And rising from every corner,

They advance outward

In brilliant waves, warbling.

Eyes glowing with sky,

Frolicking like the wind,

Their visions have songs to sing, too

Forecasts all of their own.


To Quote Viramontes:

From “Nopalitos”: The Making of Fiction

“…A basic problem for any writer is time. I lament the lack of time. As I pass my shelves of books, I think, these are books I will never read; or as my notebooks pile up, spilling over with plots, characters, great and moving sentences, I think, these are the words that will never find a story…”

With more soon,


Barnsdall Park

It sure has been some time since I saw Los Feliz’s most coveted green space, but its breathtaking bark looks as young as ever.