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a man's home

at the foot
of the hill where we lived in that
once splendid
apartment building erected in the heyday of old
hollywood everything all white
the polished stone walls the lions out front
sliding even tben down the long
slope to the veggie restaurant at the bottom
the smells
wafted and whirled upward to slip gently through the open windows
facing sunset where my bed
stolen from a blind neighbor sat amid the cat shit
and the giant roaches that covered the floor
like the sidewalk roaches in new orleans popping underfoot
or the burning
eucalyptus on the horizon over pasadena
crackling from tree to tree with
a stravinsky rhythm jerky and irregular
but fast oh god so fast
a world away from the lazy veggie breeze rising from la petite to move
from room to room until it paused at the window
next to our broken toilet
overlooking the alley and the mexicans on the first floor
who would scream and curse
every time one of us tossed a newspaper full of shit to splatter
against the white stones shaped by the same artisans
who helped to build the hearst castle
where acre upon acre of exotic flowers would lift their breath to the lifeless
rooms overhead

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