dccxviii

West Hollywood Winter

Fathom a market of goldenrod (and
not the genera that take batteries).

A secret garden for them, outside a bed 

& breakfast, perhaps. 8 in the morning.

Glowing French Toast with orange rinds,
chunk cantaloupe.  Neon sex.  Walk

to Grauman’s, split stars for an hour
(because we’re so damned grumpy),

curl up inside a toaster oven.  Somalia,
Diebenkorn, and Baziotes.  A botched

attempt at a door (1960s). More on 

this later, I think, as I straight fail to 

go unnoticed while bristling at the

stunted pussy willow upon which I

am pissing.  I coffee down and perk

up, snatching the buzzes all the way 

through the Golden Globes Era.