LA, sun is bright, but it’s cold.
I walk, caught in a dream, her.
A face kept forever, before my
world came to be, she was lost.
Somewhere a ghost remembers,
and the airman came home again.
Ritzy hotel selling a promise, a smile.
That wound makes a demon come.
A young woman, sitting on school steps,
that I stand before, smoking fumes of ghosts.
No one’s face reveals the days end.
Half torn and mocked in a blasphemous pose.
A fancy hotel, the night come, things go on
and they stand still, and hum like power lines,
the juice to memory and vengeance and loss,
to the bright stars that we make of the dead.
The streets are just a moment, changing,
but we’re still the demons and the angels,
the sharpened knife, to too desperate kisses,
and the hope that damns us time and again.