by Eleanor Goldfield

Enough ink has flowed over your jagged streets…but here goes:

I can still see my dreams –

scattered on the 405,

where parched in drought they stay alive –

on fumes.

The choking abated, I patiently waited –

watched, walked and dreamed.

But in a city of cars, the sprawl –

swallowed me up and now that I left,

I can come back

and bleed through the cracks –

that still know me.

Such an odd feeling –

the smoggy hills I drove through,

the afterthought spires of a downtown admired –

for the recently acquired –

Starbucks and typewriter adorned cafes –

a city mired –

a funeral pyre

that still keeps my soul warm,

on wisps of dreams

I’m sure will never die.

The Silverlake exit,

my loft on a roof,

the Hollywood hills with a wrap around porch –

the birth and the death of the bands and 12 moves.

The studio nights and days –

where you pull up the sun,

from a late night drug run,

feeling her pain as she squints through the haze –

in this overrun maze.

It’s like I never left and yet,

like I never stayed,

not just in place but in mind –

like I never lived here –

a city of make believe –

crowded like a purgatory of dreams –

some that should stay and others that leave

but the traffic’s a creep.

A slick bus stop city –

the driver like Mulholland Drive, you survive –

if you crash once or twice –

back on the bus –

the one I heard I should take,

real seems so fake –

the pockets of dreams I sewed and re-seemed,

shifted, transferred and shared –

from the hills to the sea.

The push and the pull,

the start and the stop,

the rich and the poor;

has beens and never will bes,

what’s your name again and can you help me make it,

take it –

this youth, it’s proof

that You’ve paid your dues – right?

That’s how it works,

they peddle that tune

the bitter and blue —

sing it to themselves as time passes by.

The song remains the same -

Humming in time,

Hollywood signs – y

our name in lights,

yeah it feels nice —

but landlords know better

than to take rent in highs –

so soak your vice –

in martinis on rooftops,

count your calories,

bleach blond hair,

surf rider laissez-faire,

the world out there –

can wait.

It’s not great till it’s scarred –

in the streets, in the cracks, that still know me.

(image by Bruce Cooper)