tastes like the city

when the sidewalk gets too hot, you

step off.

into some bar,

where the guy next to you tells stories

of the snow white cafe, and the drugs,

and the famous.

you just want your cold bud light,

and the sound of the freeways.

it's the blood in the gutters, the blood in the hot-tubs

-the story of a place.

the guy talks about high-powered assault rifles,

and his car that broke down that time

somewhere in texas.

you just might need that beer now,

that earthquake, that forest fire.

you want all of los angeles, and that beer.

he asks if you heard about that guy who got shot,

yesterday, down on melrose, right in the face,

with pieces of skull everywhere.

you tell him no, and you finally get your beer,

and it tastes like the city, like violence,

and palm trees.

there is no escaping this.

only alcohol, and that talking man,

and all of los angeles.