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.
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
Wake me up when the sun stops living.
Written at 6:53 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.