City of Angels

For his home, Los Angeles, and to all the angels who have held him up when he most needed it.

City of Angels

lost soul.
a city of lights of stimulated
noble gases. it passes
for a faux firmament.
I haven't seen an angel
here.
and probably,
never will.

but I have seen
poor, proud people,
their flannel workshirts
needing repair and a wash,
shuffling through the
immigrant neighborhoods.
the pretty girl, pretty no more,
selling her star power
in condom come-ons
on the street corner.
and I have seen a peaceful
ocean, kissing the sands
of time, worn like
strands of beige pearls
on the neck of a lady too
proud to admit the paste
will wash away in the rain.

love is bought here. sold
in carrying cases with
rouge and eyeliner. t-shirts
filled with silicone brush
the vanity from the wind
as rollerblades run down
bag ladies who never
gave that producer the
blowjob he asked for.

war zone. everyone
sells something. fortunately,
I am wise enough, and studied
well enough in the wars of the
sphere of Venus, I know I have
nothing of any real value.
which makes me the richest man
in the city of angels. until
I give out, give up, give in
to the inevitable.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.