10,000 acres

there are parts of L.A.
that look just fine
where the front lawns
boast green
from behind picket fences
and mullioned windows
offer cross-hatched portraits
of perfect families
good, caring mothers
and strong,
hard-working fathers
who love their
incandescent children
perfect families
from Rockwell's America
in the warmth of their homes
underneath the growing
billows of smoke
riding the backs of
the Santa Anas
galloping through town
as the pungent,
ashen reminder
of a destitute woman's
heirloom wedding dress
and a crying boy's football

Jack, he is a banker.

Whaddya say, Lou?
Shall we nullify our lives?
You with heroin
Me with procastination
At least you can
Write a song about it
I might start one
but I won't finish it
What says you, Lou?
Was today a perfect day?
I gotta say
I wish I could tell you
that I'm fighting
an uphill battle
with mediocrity
but I'd be lying
I still haven't figured out
what costume to wear
for all tomorrow's parties