the days seem perfect
especially as they run out.
no catastrophy required.
they run out just the same.
how many hours
must I spend
sitting in parking lots
all over los angeles
waiting.
observing oilstains
parking blocks
concrete walks
shattered ancient walls
the adventures of discontent sleepers
spilled everywhere like
the guts of a fallen angel.
the collage of songs,
voices,
drifting from
the second story rooms
passing car windows.
the individuals are so unimaginative sometimes,
plodding mules,
but the intersection of bland colors
has brought about a whole new pallate,
three dimensional sound
the ever flowing mix of 10,000,000 feet,
rythm and rhyme had never been tested so.
it is the soundtrack of another perfect hour spent
waiting out the clock,
either racing
or waiting out
the tide of cars.
I am sure lucky here.
it is all so perfect...