LA poems (1-5 outta 20).

The Station

9pm, downtown LA,
hugging a book like
it’s my family. Maybe it is.



There’s no real milk
or cream for coffee
Just some terrifying
portioned creamers


How do we know?

A man’s on his laptop
at dinner. The drink
I order comes lidded
in a jar, sprig of rosemary.



In Venice Beach
you can buy a joint
& get your teeth
whitened next door.


Doncha know?

A hot dog on a stick,
I learn, is something different
than a corn dog.

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