Silverlake

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.

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