Saturday, June 20, 2020

bert myers poem

L.A. 

The world’s largest ash-tray, 
the latest in concrete, 
capital of the absurd; 
one huge studio 
where people drive 
from set to set and everyone’s 
from a different planet. 

For miles, the palm trees, 
exotic janitors, 
sweep out the sky at dusk. 
The gray air molds. 
Geraniums heat the alleys. 
Jasmine and gasoline 
undress the night. 

This is the desert 
that lost its mind, 
the place that boredom built. 
Freeways, condominiums, malls, 
where cartons of trash and diamonds 
and ideologies 
are opened, used, dumped near the sea.