The Dogs

Ode to Los Angeles

The living, breathing, sweating, seething, wreaking fucking city.

Sprawls in an endless vacuum of innocuous gray concrete and tanned flesh both stretched too tight over their insides.

Everyone rushing, pushing, fighting desperate to go from here to there. Always in a hurry. Here is never enough. We must go forward. Be better, smarter, cooler, sexier, skinnier, emptier.

Produce, earn, spend, consume. Tomorrow is on sale today only. Don't be late.

Image is everything when real beauty is lost. The death of relationships is now. The death of quiet dignity. The death of the real.

The bobbing ducks and the pond are gone, now a triple decker parking lot to Walmart.

The grass and trees and dirt are gone. So is the air, the sky, the earth and us. All covered in a coffin of concrete. Painted with rage and isolation.

Perfected, new and improved they say.  Antimicrobial, nonporous polymer life. Order now.

1 comment:

  1. Hey, man! Long time no read. I take it you're back in LA, then?


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