CLEAN THINGS
An entire family stares downwards
As I shuffle past them on the sidewalk.
There is no need to stick together so closely,
it is Sunday, the day of inevitability
I'm breaking in my black boots down Kensington
Past Tottenham’s
Past the 101 fwy river which protects the Mexicans
From coming condominiums
White
I wear my black
sunglasses like a bib
Protecting solid citizens
From my baby eyed id
My poets coat animates into a silhouette of godly imperfection cuz; wind.
I betray Kensington,
Rich in thought,
Phoneless, pussied, pious.
Clean things are happening in the under-tunnels of the 101 fwy,
Up in world above, too many women are talking to chatGPT. The men don’t like it one bit. Soon they will create armies.
But down here, something else is definitely
going on...
Definitely no guys with political diplomacy,
And Im glad.
Those guys make me queasy.
Down here, I can eat haunted comedy with dignity!
I can be a clean thing again
For sure
Definitely
+_+_
I make an honest living lying
Tucking it up for a couple of days
in the great tradition
of hairy-armed day-players
who came before me,
went home to their electric tea kettles, dusty ashtrays,
after a day of facing
glamorous obstacles
I’m cruising a clean 30 down Cesar Chavez abandoning plans to head home, following low, new moon
free of scripted sets, workplace etiquettes
In my white German car, I drive on by
the people in the under-tunnels;
they run alongside
pushing shopping carts
strung to baby carriages
galloping faster than my BMW
Somethingisdefinitelygoingon
LA’s seen a million guys like me,
Punching in, flirting with PAs, smoking seventy cigarettes per scene,
taking leave into their cracked leather seats
radio blasting against these undertunnel walls
But how many guys have actually parked
Got out
Nothing phony about the paper bag growing like a triangle
out of this poor woman’s head
Gallons of what must be
grease..?
Car? Bacon?
Not even the loneliest costume designer could get it
Fuck Hamlet
How Many Gigs to Get Good Enough to Make God Cum On Every Take
Tis da Q
Here's a croissant, lady
It's just another name for bread
May I ask, is that a SAG card stapled
onto the back of your head?