Letter from a New City to an Old Friend [SEAside Gra-
–i.m. Ronny Burhop 1987-2010 ffiti]
[adjust Even the white noise here is different—
trACKing] there’s no boulevard, no blue and breathing
ocean. The streets—more quiet now, winding
through rain, hidden parks and open markets—
are cobbled, and twist off into alleys
less sinister than ours. There’s history [REprise]
in the street names, true—but the mystery,
the footsteps’ muffled click, the concrete sea
rolling below my window is tame,
We fell off the world for years in LA. [SoDen
I can only remember the haze now, eAcH corP.
how our vista was never really clear oWn
of smog, or planes, or neon bellied clouds. a sOul?]
I split. Left you standing with a pocket
[My grambag full of lock-
of less keys, a few bucks, two lighters and I
tRixY drove the forty miles back home. Years later,
rEds] I’m hoping, perhaps we can just look back, tuchhhh— —MIDAZ
recall it before the cards were flipped—
our own Cassidy and Sundance era? (EPIX
I turned my back on California, X)
on those two-for-one, from out the Honda
[Malverde] hustlers, sunburned illegals, los santos…
And I have thought about nothing else, since.
I heard about your dazzling surrender.
[oUr buRnT- Guess I should ask ‘from whose bourn’ and all that,
but I can’t fucking see how it matters.
oUt SCAPE] Anyways, it’s probably December
right now in your coastal town, every crow * JauREZ—
crowding the power lines, jostling. Each one Bosnia
vacant, thinking only of its single del SUR*
green walnut, the distance to the pavement.
‘grAFT’ -NoV16, 2009-