49 degrees in LA

Four twenty five in the morning.
Santa Monica boulevard
looks like the rapture hit last night
and all the painted saints went to heaven.
The pavement wet and dark
like the scar tissue of my soul
that you don't seem to really mind.
You should be here.  You belong here
with the fading Gypsies and seven foot trannies.
Construction blocks my ramp to the 405
but I can always count on Lincoln
to snake me south to the airport
my rental car silent with radio off
because the music of my city is all I need to hear.
You should be here.  You belong here
with the Promenade cellist and the vampire boys
who walk Ventura, never knowing I can see them.
I am their king, scouting a return from exile.
Forty nine degrees in LA.
Boiling point for transfiguration.
Got to get the alchemists lined up.
Got to get the alchemists lined up.
I'm coming home, even if alone.
I'm coming home.


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.