climate shock therapy

this time of year
(november).
where i grew up
one look out the window reads death
spelled by trees lining the street
starved to dry bones
and the birds have all moved on
following our last breath south.
i had yet to be alive when i headed west
all the way to california.
these days i follow my own winds south
like the birds
to the deserts
to a different kind of dying
a death that i can live.

smog (the LA poem)

los angeles is a neuron
at the core of the psychotic mind
a shock of brilliance and madness
this atlantis demon of the desert
draped in a fabric
thin like smog
woven by the energy of millions lost
framed by confused consciousness
like a graffiti painting
this reality hits the wall
as the firestorms create their own winds in the southland
los angeles is the last to know
the nightmare of so many people here
create the sweet dreams for an entire world
if you have one way out
you go west
this is misery, this is beauty
and this is west

memory loss

i had a lot of good stories
but the allusive details are gone
all that is left is the vague sensation
that i once lived
like a shock of static electricity
delivered by a stranger
the scent of a summer that seemed to last forever
we don't get those anymore
not even in california where it is always summer
this memory loss
it might be a primal instinct
or maybe it's the drugs
cause i refuse to believe that i never had much fun