I wrote a poem Friday night…

The View from the Hotel Fig

Fireflies caught and cozy in glass
On tables lounging poolside
Friday night lights drowsy beneath
Stretching arms of fluorescent checkerboards tickling heaven.

The corner absorbs me
Throat warm
A cherry in amber
Tasting this funny place that loans me a seat among Angels.

Not far the skate punks rule with baseball bats
Helicopters hang and dive like insects over the bloated light ocean
And every rough edge screams
Like infants gasping the first breath.

The music and costumes try their best to create importance here
Edges paid for, consumed and worn
Cigarettes are casually smoked and do not burn children on this side of Figueroa
Neighbors, strangers, creeping toward each other separated by price tags, papers and siren walls
The cherry tastes bottle sweet and I struggle to swallow.


  1. Birth wet and bold. Look forward to more.

    And 39 years of commitment to a place–or a person–you don’t really understand or properly appreciate is truly ‘no small thing.’ Your parents are probably missionaries without knowing it :^)

  2. Thanks, Tom.

    And yes, well-spoken with regards to the parents. They are truly an example.

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