Los Angeles

this morning
the body of a goat
was dumped
on the sidewalk
in the middle
of Beverly Hills.

i almost tripped over
the head
without even noticing
as i crossed the street
towards my attorney's
offices.

then i looked down.

then i saw its slit throat,
and eyes failing to stare out.

was this real?

a 150 lb. dead goat
dead on the sidewalk
in dead beverly hills
with its fresh blood
running uselessly
down the dead sidewalk?

me,
the only one walking,
of course,
i convinced myself
it couldn't be real,
that i was lucid dreaming,
that i wanted to see this goat,
that this goat
was connected to some
repressed primal longing for
sacrificial blood
that went
back generations and generations,
and that a civilized human being
trying to make a go of it
in the mechanized
western world of the 21st century
could not and should not
ever understand this impulse,

(or it was just way too early in the morning
to trust my mind.)

i would have gotten
away with this line of reasoning
except for the two cop cars
that suddenly rolled up on the sidewalk,
sirens blaring,
doors banging open,
officers fanning out
in strategic formation,
shouting at me
as if i were a thousand angry rioters,

"KEEP MOVING!"

so i did,
because that's what we
(are trained to)
do best here
every day

anyway.

El Jaleo

-L

The Lost Art Of The Mentor

"A boy comes to me with a spark of interest,
I feed that spark and it becomes a flame,
I feed the flame and it becomes a fire,
I feed the fire and it becomes a roaring blaze..."

-Cus D'Amato

Mojave Thermometer

-L

Last Days Of The Internet Boom

he walks into our apartment,

kicks some cans
out of his way,

stares at the garbage
overflowing,

picks up a dead fern from
off the sill, sits it up right,

mumbles about some model
he was sure he could have,
and,
more importantly,
the lousty quality of the champagne,

laughs,

places the fern back down on its side
as it was before,

peers out the window
at the vacant lot below and
all the local evicted homeless squatting
in the burned out craters
at dawn,

then he sits down on the futon,

loosens his tie,

informs us he isn't going
to make it back
to his hotel,
not after a night
like this
(and thanks, brother, really, seriously, for real...thanks for hooking this shit up,)

unbuttons his collar,

leans back,

extends his belly,

closes his eyes,

mumbles:

"Sure glad I'm not an arteeeest,"

then passes out.

-Avenue A, New York City - 10/98

i found my kicks...

-L

With Joy...

-L

Croatoan

The race you never knew
with a language never to be spoken,
and rites forgotten.

The race you never knew
with all their names 
for God and Devil.

The race you never knew
and the children
who believed the stories

too,

imagined them
in the woods
away
from the eyes
of their elders
as all children
everywhere still

do. 

The race you never knew
that expected
to live and live
and always live
never giving a thought
to anything but 
the seasons of life.

The race you never knew

now

a Jeopardy fucking question,
or

an answer 

on 

a standardized test
to make sure it's really fair.

 Two years,
dates separated by a (-) dash.

A fight over who owes who
what in meaningless academic halls.

T-shirts sold for 19.95 in the mall.

Pages of symbols only "experts" can read.
Movie reviews that speak of "authenticity."

The race you never knew
so loving,
 so diabolical,

forgotten, lost, exterminated, extinguished, erased, dust and discussed,

ROMANTICIZED,

just like us.



By popular request
the race you never knew 
has gone into oblivion with
all the rest.


Los Angeles - 9/3/03