Yes 1

Yes,
go.
I am certain there will be pancakes.
You know the kind,
Big,
white,
fluffy
ones.
That hang on your lips and
Soak
up the syrup.
Because toothpicks
and almonds
are made for each other.
No,
That’s wrong.
The dog is in the park.
Trouble.
Running black.
As if still
here.
I dreamt about him last night.
He came to my bed
and curled up beside me.
Pressed himself so hard
against me,
I woke up warm.
My boy.
My soft boy.
I was a mother once.

Ode to L.A.

I do not miss you.
You with your smoggy, painfully, sunny skies.
You with your line of traffic
that crawls hour after hour, mocking me
and everyone else stupid enough to be stuck in it.
You with your tanned perfectly
toned bodies,
who worship your superficiality,
as if it were an alternative religion,
to sell their souls to.
You with your collection of cheap blondes,
over-processed sunflowers destined to remain exactly as they are
till they are placed in the ground at Forest Hills Cemetery.
I do not miss your monotonous weeks and months,
that look the same,
everyday
no matter what the season.
Nor do I miss the phony frenzy,
where everyone is judged solely on their next “big” project,
or who they just had lunch with,
or how many zeros are on their check.
I do not miss you.
You with your swank affairs and Beverly Hills mansions.
You with your Rolexes and lapdogs wearing diamond collars.
I do not miss you and your winding roads
up Topanga,
barfing to get to an art class that would leave me
emotionally defeated.
I do not miss your sun.
Or the teeth bleached whiter than the clouds.
Or the ever-present feeling that at any moment
I could be the next “hot” thing or just another footnote
in your Hollywood hills.
I do not miss your
sushi bars, (well, I guess I miss those a little).
Or your Farmer’s Market with the twelve-dollar corned beef sandwiches.
Or the receptionists trained in the art of exclusion,
except when they’ve deemed you worthy by some higher up.
I do not miss you and your parking spaces,
the fights over them,
the four letter words,
the pointed middle fingers.
I do not miss waiting hours to go to a movie,
or standing in lines at grocery stores no matter what time of night.
I do not miss your earthquakes
that left me naked in a doorway,
stumbling over broken glass and 20 inch t.v.’s thrown to the ground,
as if they were styrofoam props from a movie set.
I do not miss casting agents
and stars who would attempt rape in dressing rooms
and then laugh about it.
I do not miss you and your eighty-degree Christmases
that never felt like Christmas at all.
I do not miss you.
I do not miss you.