Tuesday, August 28, 2012

36 Hours In LA

Southern California

June Gloom smothers us with her mercy on
the Pacific Coast Highway, a pillow
pressed down on our slack jawed faces like Will
Sampson's Chief Broom gently dispatching
Jack Nicholson's R.P. McMurphy

in the movie before making good his
escape, both characters set free while we
mill about in the day room awaiting our
relentless cloudless meds, prisoners of
our quaint notions of L.A. - a lifetime’s

worth picked up willy-nilly like bits of
leaves, twigs and dog shit stuck to a good old-
fashioned mid-western snow man:  these winding
canyon roads infested with laid back ghosts
of long haired country rockers, Neil Young doomed

to gaze forever west from Zuma Beach,
the riddled Band, addled vapor ringing
the eternal flame of a Malibu
beach fire, Gram Parsons smoldering like
a votive in Joshua Tree while a

wry Randy Newman professes his love. 
Meanwhile, coffee at the hotel where we
gawk at John Irving, our only confirmed
celebrity sighting, a dour Yankee
warming his bones on Ocean Boulevard. 

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