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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