author’s note: as you can see, my title is pretty much a rip-off of Barbara’s series on calles:

• [fundación][1]
• [los orientales][2]
• [moreno y oscura][3]
• [del consejo práctico y los dolores y trastorno de tensión postraumática][4]

what follows is an unmanageable, undecipherable piece of mind-blather that fails to encapsulate the inexplicable sense of alienation I experienced today, wandering aimlessly through the streets of the city of my birth.)

city
overlaid
map in my mind
forking roads, to sea and sky
like double-vision
the eyesight of a drugseeker
or a prophet

Sunset and Hollywood
where the road splits
the city splits
eastside vs westside
reina de los angeles, her comforting embrace
despite the depradations of the conquistador and the gringo
vs lost angels, fallen angels,
cast down from heaven, thrown up from hell
the hookers and the pimps
the dealers, the pirates, the bandits
in their suits and ties and their slick-backed hair

they claim that two things cannot occupy the same space
and so my memories must be bulldozed
the ground razed and wiped clean
tabula raza
build upon the rubble even as the ground shakes

Santa Monica and Sunset
even here, still, the rumor of the lost Great Road
running to the sea like a river of chrome
and reaching back to the cold and hard places
through the unforgiving desert
and the dry and dusty plains
2,000 miles
of generations past, and era falling down the memory hole
to where my heart froze solid and shattered
once and for all

I am futiley picking up the pieces still

signs of renewal and decay
phoenix dawn, ashes to ashes
childhood memories flicker and fade
a Polaroid picture in reverse
dissolving into the murky white
gone
no, never was

where did I come from
not so much forgetting
but simply not wanting to know
how much pain and suffering
seeking ignorance
and yet circles in circles
blind spots and the brink
the edge

Hyperion, Fletcher, Silver Lake
lost in the winding rills and ravines
through the rolling hills
pockets of silence and sweet bliss
the reservoir shimmering in the sun
the lone house on the hill
a voice sings softly in my heart
and still I dare not be stirred

all I can see is the edge

Vermont and Los Feliz
in the shadows of the verdant hills
in this land of no seasons
and the watchtower upon their brow
lonely citadel gazing upon the city below
the stately forbidding houses enclosed in their fences and gates
do they keep us out, or trap those within?

so many years run together
fast-forward then rewind
warp and jumble
images lashed together with twine
like so many wet bundles of newspapers and magazines
thrown haphazardly on the porch

where am I going?
in this space that is no space
time suspended like a bridge that touches no shore
true north, when there are only lies
half-truths, rationalizations, and spin control
only the mountains tell me
in their majestic silence
the grand hulking bleakness
snow-touched and mighty
dwarving the towers of Babel
the ringing towers
south, and east, and west
K-town and mid-Wilshire, Bunker Hill downtown, Hollywood and Century City
cold and gleaming
like pikes and swords
encircling, as I gaze out from the ramparts

Vermont and Franklin
obscurity and glimpses of the stars
in these hidden spaces I have trod
where dreams bloomed unbidden in my heart
riotous flowering colors
without roots
I let them wither and die

I am king of no country
not even the barren wastelands of my heart
nor the wind-scoured deserts in my soul
not so much emptiness, but nothingness
not vacuum but non-being
like slipping out of a dream
I wonder
am I figment of someone’s imagination?
a character in God’s dream?
and if He should awake?

Glendale and Hyperion
upon the ancient bridge across the concrete river
dry like witch’s tears
dry as the wellsprings of my soul
I stare at Mt. Wilson black giant staring back down upon the valley
prickling with antennae
like some giant insect queen

my lone beacon in the night
shimmering and flickering
as the February winds gust
the spirits on the wind keen and moan
and still
I fear that in the high places
even there, I cannot find what I seek
the things that I have lost
not the flowers, but the roots of a dream