Prologue

Zipping through the busy streets of Echo Park. A new companion sits shotgun beside me. Enormous black sunglasses engulf half his face, but nothing can hide this kid’s open enthusiasm. He speaks with a dynamism I’m still getting used to. This is our fourth meeting and I’m half-spellbound between his wild anecdotes and the interjection of driving directions, taking us into the belly of LA.

A hideaway café invites us in. Our book bags overflow with poetry and ideas. The black chairs have intricate little carvings on them, evidence of the artists that have come before us. Cups of chai land on the table and we’re off and running, diving into his books — sketchbooks, art books, notebooks, poetry books. I’m amazed at the private glimpse I’ve just been given; it’s full on show and tell. I’ve brought a few notes and ideas of my own, but I’m not about to interrupt this beautiful outpouring.