Death, Film & Food

Here’s some recent poems. If poetry isn’t for you, no sweat. It’s not really for me either. I’ll see you soon.

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Death, Film & Food: All of Which Are Bad in LA

from start to finish, my nose is ugly

I will do nothing to change this but laugh 

I prefer my art like my pizza

which is, I think, the only way to become a New York Poet.

I once wrote and tossed screenplay–a labored, worrisome thing 

worth exactly $1. available at 3 am.

it’s poetic genius really–to build a city for angels.

to make it one, idling highway. 

I often think of Earthquakes–how hollywood
will buckle and the city will fall at an angle

finally getting its good side.

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Feels like this. 

He said it’s always both. 

That the zoo is not so bad. That we’d come back to break the locks. One day, it’s always both. Before I left 

I drew my name. On the mirror—in the corner. An even seven letters. Just below

where his eyes would go—where blue eyes would go, instinctively. The same blue stuck still to my blouse. Now stained now dripping through. I take it off to meet his eyes—

a liberated zoo.

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Catcall

At the very least–

A man was nice to me.

The best view I ever had in a strip mall.

Moving between idle cars and the revelation 

of my body, I think, I might wear some color. 

I might wear a red color. 

I use red as reference–

as data. 

It is wholly uninteresting–as I am

Uninterested, completely, in it. 

Color has done nothing for me in years.

Selfish. Garish. 

Unbearably needy. I’d prefer it 

gone if this would mean nobody could see me 

weaving 

inside still traffic.

The best view I ever had in a strip mall.

Black and white and jaded. 

Should I wear red, I ask,

Would this make traffic go?

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I Think Of Arches

You draw an arch on my abdomen

Starting at one hip, brushing

My belly button. Finding the other. 

Under your left index finger, a world 

You’re explaining where it ends or maybe

It’s beginning. It doesn’t really matter. 

I have decided already 

That I love you.

You say,

I love that you stop using contractions 

when speaking seriously.

I respond, that’s a funny thing to notice.

And the world between

my hips arches 

into yours. I like a straight forward poem. 

One that tells me good morning, simply

That smokes two cigarettes

While my hair dries

I believe perfection comes when we

–the writers–

Do not try to hide the meaning 

behind the sound our voices

Make. Our words, simple as they are,

Are enough to turn me over.

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Reassurance

Repeatedly asking other people to tell you that everything is—

A heightened sense of fear and lack of— 

Which can manifest itself in the need for—

These symptoms may be less prominent than

physical symptoms, so you may have to—

Treatment may consist of

Years and years. Treatment may consist of 

Years.

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Humbles

My father sent me a quote–a text message, which I’m prone to ignoring.

“Some people can be given a single weed and only see the wildflower in it. Perception

is a key component of gratitude, and gratitude, a key component of joy.” 

I thought about this–how that wild

flower is prone to ignoring weather’s apathy. 

Not as an act of triumph but out of necessity. 

Like how prayer for roadkill humbles 

the one it does not help.

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What’s Mine

I

I put on headphones and wander around for hours and it feels necessary. I need to know the place where I am living, and I need to keep moving. 

I listened to St. Vincent, as her music is my current fixation. Beautiful and jaded in the ways I like to imagine myself. I listened to Rattlesnake four times in a row, hoping something would sink in. 

I often wish my job could be to walk around cities, looking dramatically downward. But that is neither a good, nor service. It’s just for me.

The space my body occupies while walking feels like mine too–whereas my house is crowded with people–with sounds that don’t belong to me.

My body in motion feels like it is more mine than it is when I am still, in this house. Does this make sense? 

II

Color and I have a pained relationship. I have bad eyes–what’s called “visual snow”, and this makes walking in low light almost impossible. My vision is always

cloudy.

This is frustrating in that it obscures everything just enough to make it less beautiful,

but not enough to really inhibit my doing anything. Color is another reminder that I cannot see

reality. “I don’t care much for color.” A ridiculous fucking statement. 

If color feels like mine though–that is when I love it. The stain on my light pink pants–the red welt on my shoulder from carrying a heavy backpack

too far. These colors, hard-won, are mine. 

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I love you so much.

Truly.

Take care.

x. Al