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Los Angeles; The City of Angels — the beating heart of a concrete desert whose arteries sparkle ruby red and shimmering silver in the long night.
Souls speed in every which way along the tangled mess of veins that make up this epicenter of culture — a symbol of dreams.
Towering in the void are monuments to the dollar, enshrouded at their base by the victims of capitalism.
A Rolls Royce passes a muttering man in tatters as a group of women in high heels pay $50 each to enter a neon club. The man in tatters hasn’t eaten in days, save for scraps from the trash.
Dog eat dog in the fog of the city, lost in the night; you can hear the growls and howls of those swept away in the flood — overlooked by speeding hearts blasting their music, praising the same holy dollar that built this city and created this mess.
Off into the night, the only time safe from the burning sun that keeps this concrete a desert — under a smog-covered moon when the truth seeps out from beneath the piss-soaked sidewalks.
Oh, Los Angeles, your angels cry riddled with despair — muted by the fierce growl of a burning engine…So it goes in the Mecca of lost dreams — in the age of lost faith.
May 3, 2022
