Fabrication of the Morning, New Poem

Guessing a scribble
today Los Angeles
as I drove down your
narrow streets
searching for something
William Blake might
say about your
parked cars
crooked like broken

A poorly manicured hedge,
bright green artificiality
in this town there’s
no telling what’s real and
what isn’t, like fractured
relationships, mistresses
and madames, hotel bars
and dives with over priced
drinks, a hollow
facade chased into
the psyche of your residents
Los Angeles, unafraid of
the lie

that hazy glow of
windshields, milky and
oil smeared
washed out paint-jobs
on deep green volvo
car hoods
like a tied dyed
badge for the
painfully disenfranchised.

In this pair of hips
i’m spying, a
dramatic cartoon-like
sway, jeans black
as their intention,
spied through the steam of
my coffee, now tasting
rich and sweet
a kiss to my stomach
in a white room washed
by sunlight

my morning read, like
exercise to my mind
the sun begging
for this cool breeze
red peppers infinitesimal
with an other worldly
glow, another
fabrication of the morning
of rhythm and recovery
every ounce of concentration
lost through the luxury
of the day off

coming back to the notebook
with the U.S. Open
in the background
on the green
commentators whispers filling
the pop of synthetic strings
a roar and a break
and the fanfare on
network television

and my inspiration

C. Platt, 9.11.2010
Silver Lake, CA