share


Letter from a New City to an Old Friend

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—

[chriiiiiiiing]

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

bRZeE

rolling below my window is tame,

bloodless…

[BRiX ‘98]

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

x

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-

 

 



ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTOR


is a graduate of the University of East Anglia. He currently teaches in Bangkok where he lives with his family.


READ NEXT

Features

May 2017

The Pilgrims

Fiction

The White Review Short Story Prize 2014

Spins

Features

Issue No. 9

Leaving Theories Behind