There are trees growing inside of buildings in Los Angeles -
Tall, clear, glass atria lit up in the night -
And they are surrounded by damp, spongy lawns
Which are plush like carpet trying to be mattress.
When I move through this city I walk down
Boulevard galleries of pastoral ideals,
Down raccoon paths through traffic dividers and
Roads that end out at Fashion Fair mall in Fresno.
The problem that my girl and I have here is
That I keep on looking for two extremes, see:
One holds me far back in rural exile,
Scolding my work ethic and asking
(And demanding) that I live in cold and silence,
While the other pushes me in deep and ties me
To roiling humanity - in, happening and living.
Two "livings" - that's where I get stuck in LA
Over and over, caught dead between
Two livings - that's what this city seems to promise:
Mile by mile of almost, not quite, half of
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