Let's Rub

In L.A., we found a way to breathe from somewhere
behind our heads. We can smell a new way to dress
one beach back. The air and light hold onto the sun
at night, until it, too, is mostly clothes, haircut, wildass
hope, so you’re strutting into the Rainbow Room straight
out of the sun’s chest, but it’s a sun like you—dark coat,
grey T-shirt, ready to explode down all the alleyways,
a sun that had an uncle supernova’d once, a corner sun,
await in the palms of concrete and streetlight,
targeted, yes prey, yes, in worship of its predator.
So, c’mon! C’mon! Pick Melrose up, and put it on!
Bend Venice down into her freaky love. Fun
Santa Monica in the ferris wheel sun helps
our parents to hate us way more than once,
but we answer, “Young flesh is cash!” Keep
your purchase of our mere politeness, thought
follows short skirts & tight pants for memories
yet to be had of ecstacy and release and freedom.
You know it one night, and your lamp gets lit.
(Let’s be cruel to the old, and show more skin.)
Make Sunset your runway, your next lover
the U.S. Senate, every Whiskey band you ever
heard your own Department of Loud Defense.
Can’t think straight. Can’t love. Let’s just rub.