I sometimes miss Los Angeles
the iridescent glow of limelight creates a warmth
a different temperature than the omnipresent sunshine.
Effervescent particles of light seem to shoot from different dimensions,
stinging like bits of asphalt bouncing of the sides of cars into skin,
taking root in the epidermis and mutating into thickened armor-
shells as strong as roaches with their lacquered wings.
Ephemeral dust melts over the landscape, like glaze on burnt orange clay.
They used to tell me that glass is made from the stuff of sand
-the same that dirtied our toes with tar-
we would search for proof and find it in worn down beer bottles,
the remnants of time’s broken narration, a man-made alabaster.
The only place I know where I am in the world is by the pier-
I almost drowned in the salty water near its barnacled sea legs,
the ocean holding me easily under til she filled my throat.
I looked through the water, beyond the surface I was below, to the sky-
-perhaps this was my fate-
they used to tell me of the girl who was stolen by the sea.
(I thought I saw her) floating out there on a cloud of foam,
a daughter taken by force, springing forth nacreous mermaid scales,
her hair floating around her head like dead algae.
and yet on land the flame of the refineries burn like beacons to the lost souls,
to feed the constant thrust of engines, the ebb and flow of ancient ointment and air, renewed daily by God’s gracious breath and shuddering heartbeat.