To Los Angeles.

To the two inch water bug.
Calmly munching pasta
from the plugged gaps
in my strainer.

Like a rich german tourist
pecking at a pastry.

Like a vermont milk cow
on some sea like field.
Who knows she’s not beef.

Are you the same one from the shower?

To the mouse in the walls.
And on my counters.
And in my boxes and bags.

That owns the in between.
And the open.
Of the spaces I rent.
Who’s on a higher rung
of the capitalist ladder.
If the capitalist ladder
was adjusted
to the actual capital of things.

(The generations. Upon generations.
Of things that shit on the stone of our castles.
That shit on the earthen floor before the stone.
And after the stone recedes.)

Do you know that’s my favorite wooden spoon?

To the coyote in the city.
Placidly pauses.
To drink me in.
And silently slip away.

How to move like you.

To the cracked out kid.
In the silver sequined baseball hat.
Who shattered his lighter.
With such exquisite violence.
That I had to duck multicolored shrapnel.
From across the street.

Then proceeded to parade about.
Cigarette stretched out before.
Like a cartoon bomb
whose fuse is short.
Asking for a light.
Without asking for a light.
Shaking the cigarette in people’s faces.
Like a gypsy curse
on the boundaries between us all.

Why that particular hat?

To the Korean women shading their faces.
With crippled umbrellas.

To the men of Jesus.
Shouting through tiny speakers.

To the wealth worn octogenarians.
With only fashion for skin.

To the night helicopters.
And the perpetuity of the hunt and run.

To the couches leaning vertical against trees.

To the circadian bloodstains on the long highways.

To the seas. And the sands.

And the lines that define.
All the things I will never know.

What am I supposed to do with you.