8.1.17

Koreatown smelled like urine and garlic,

but I still miss it. Now, in the Valley,

it feels like I’m living inside of a dryer,

and the air smells like horse shit

and sometimes human shit, when

it gets too hot and all the old

subterranean piping buckles under

the pressure of a useless sun.

What happened

to our winters?

Why can’t we return to

the year 1937, the last time snow fell

on this barren land,

the last time people truly loved

each other the best way humans

know how: in cold weather.

In heat we keep our distance.

I told my mother I’d call her back

sometime in autumn when the

rains start up again and the leaves

turn the color of privileged skin.

Until then I’ll live like a five-foot-six gopher,

scurrying underground at the potential

of human

contact.

Wake me up when the sun stops living.

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Written at 6:53 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.