I normally don’t look to coincidences for meanings and signs
but this trip it seems that Marco and I
scared away the June Gloom.
Instead, L.A. greeted and engulfed us in the hottest
weekend the year has seen.
My lips are chapped
and the back of my neck
has reached its crimson phase,
but I think I’m in okay shape.
Our rental in Silverlake keeps taking me back
to Tiny Vessels by Death Cab,
coincided with the discovery of their sounds from The O.C.
I think I was half a tourist, half a local this trip —
I saw where Ryan punched Luke
in the classic doop
for rich kids scene.
I ate shrimp tacos at a place
that strays from Yelp reviews.
I don’t think I could ever truly be a local here.
I don’t like being stuck in traffic for most of the day
and I have no interest in acting gigs
or meeting dealers in Venice.
Some natural vegetation would be nice —
Did you know that the palm trees lined down each road
aren’t native? Aren’t really home?
That’s too much work to look pretty.
Something that is mostly man-made
and pretty and can stay
is the fucking view from this place.
This mid-century, multitiered haven
sits on top of a steep hill.
When you enter the neighborhood the road
immediately starts winding and they stay that way
until the end of the pavement.
The frightening drive leads to the best reward:
the houses on this hill silhouette on to
the beautiful buildings beneath and reach the skyline
of the under-appreciated districts — downtown.
And when the sun is setting and I can only see the shadows
of each carefully planted, nomad palm trees,
I believe I might actually miss this place.