It’s probably summertime on Mars
where the fog settles in & the surf is
more like a smear campaign than red dirt
in your sneakers.
It’s always 1974 in L.A.
the red tide smells like blood
& I’m not old enough to know any better
stepping across dead things on the beach as seagulls
carve up the smog.
I’d rather be conducting my own
private Monsters of Poetry jam session in my head
instead of worrying about money 24/7 but that’s
just how the Grecian urn crumbles these days.
If the halo fits
get yourself a golden crowbar.
Some folks get their kicks reading the clincal assessment
me I 360 off the Tijuana pipe collecting silver spoons
& if they don’t bend I weep.