The Los Angeles Poetry Examiner's Friday Pick: 3 poems from Jason Hardung

LOVE LETTER TO LOS ANGELES

The first day I saw you Los Angeles
we sat outside, traded coy glances
you dumped sugar in your coffee
and asked why I ordered the Denver omelet
when the world is at my finger tips.
“I'm not good with change”, I said.

The Melrose pavement was shit hot
as a lost boy beat his brains with a pay phone receiver-
Jesus called collect again,
always drama with that guy
he has great abs though.
The art gallery in the tranny's backyard
was post-modern grudge fu*k,
the dead beetles encased in amber
the cat skeletons for sale
the syringes of Burroughs's youth
all in cases under light
and I wanted to buy you that ring
made from brown recluse bones
but I was broke.

The cars on Sunset
ceased to exist
it was all lips and cigarettes by then
the two eyes veiled in plastic hearts
with more star power
than the walk of fame
we got used to talking without words
the whiskey brought courage
and I finally kissed the smog
from your lips.

Hungover in the sand
I watch sea gulls run on knobby knees
the ocean eats itself
flesh surrounds me
and I feel I've been here before.

I pull a stray white feather from your back
maybe from a pillow
or a pigeon
nothing can sway my opinion-

I still believe
this is the city of angels.

Gravity Is No Rainbow
by Jason Hardung

Pershing Square at six a.m. is all bus brake sighing,
another day, another day, ashy-faced tramps
shake morning dew from their hair,
put shoes on one at a time, gotta get a good place in line
breakfast at the mission starts soon.
Commuters climb the stairs from the Metro station like ants
marching from their hole to cut leaves in the jungle
or move rocks to please the queen
all looking straight ahead, no eye contact.
 
I watch this, this ecology from the ninth floor
fire escape at the Biltmore Hotel. Up this high
I would call myself a pigeon
but they are all on the ground
pecking for food like everybody else.
The smoke from my cigarette joins the smog.
A plaque downstairs says
Alfred Hitchcock filmed some scenes for Vertigo in these back stairs—
I can see why, all crooked and dark, black and white
they haven't changed in sixty years.
 
I just keep thinking of birds and of Isaac Newton
and which one was right and if I climbed over this rusty rail,
would I fly, or would I splatter on Olive Street,
my body a broken kite and the kite flyer
holding my bones in his lap blaming himself.
He's just a child. It isn't his fault. Those men in fluorescent vests
would power wash my organs from the street before
the suits climbed into glass buildings
all that'd be left of me would roll down the gutter to the Pacific Ocean.
 
Maybe I won't jump. I'm scared of water.
I toss the cigarette and watch it fall until it is nothing.
Automobiles honk, trash trucks beep and back up,
a homeless man looks up and curses me about God,
maybe he thinks I am God,
maybe I am God.
I better go inside,
this is too much responsibility.
 

Walking through the alley

Behind the Elks Lodge

Trying to avoid the people on the sidewalk who

Hold hands and point at architecture who

Only worry about interest rates

Whether their eggs are organic

And if the weather will cooperate with their plans

When a guy wearing an old army coat

A sleeping bag strapped to his back by a shoestring,

Afro matted into uneven dreads

And four teeth left, all gold, stopped me

I prepared to say I didn't have any money

Or cigarettes, because I really didn't

He shook my hand never moving from my eyes

I asked what was wrong and he said,

There's something special about you

Is that good or bad, I asked

All good my man, it's almost like you shine

I told him thank you but I don't feel like I do

Of course it was a ploy to soften me up

It had to be, strangers don't say shit like that

He was still looking at me

Mouth open, eyes fixated like he saw a ghost

I started walking away

Wondering if it was true

Positive he'd call me back

Positive he would ask for something--

He never did.