I’m thinking about LA in the rain,
comatose sunbeams whispering through the droplets
pit-pattering onto the man-woven ground below.
Neon signs blinking as water thumps on their faces,
window wipers swishing, clearing the path for day
I’m thinking about LA in the rain.
The magic is hard to explain—water in such a greedy place,
life where life is bought, bribed, stolen
fear in amazement, the day to come.
A prostitute may lie behind those doors
eyes rolled white, wrists cut red
a fallen blonde wig standing on the floor…
I’m thinking about LA in the rain,
girls shrieking
the pings of slot machines.
Elvis flips his hair and we all become drunk,
intoxicated by the scent of coffee and orange
protruding from polyester-fringed pants and oily hair products.
I’m thinking about LA in the rain.