POEM LXII: “CRUSH CITY”

You never realize it when you’re on the outskirts.

You take one wrong turn, you’re not paying attention,
and the autopilot takes over.

Suddenly you’re in downtown
Crush City.

Everything is New Wave
Everything is painfully pink.

No one sleeps or eats enough when they’re here;
the coffee could wake the dead.

The city grinds its gears on the color of his eyes
the tone of her voice
the little way he joggles his sneaker heel
the squareness of her knuckles.

Nothing gets produced, though everything is consumed
It’s the First World, basically,
Los Angeles eating its own tail
and we would all live there if we had the chance
even though it’s a miserable place to be,
everyone inside says so.

Only place worse, is everywhere else.

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