September 9, 2009
In front of Denny’s, Sunset & Gower, on the Sunset side
trudging describes it
Four days off because I was wise enough to use a floating holiday and
stretch the 3 days (for all you poor suckers!) into 4.
Monday everyone trudged back
I stayed in and banged away on my keyboard filling this blog with bloggy bloggeries.
We must all face reality eventually…and that was today. For poor me. Trudge to
work from the Hollywood and Vine Red Line, drag my sorry ass down side streets while avoiding crazed foot commuters who are much more aggressive and rude than car drivers why is that???
Interesting, will blog, note that for future reference.
bullshit self-pitying whiny crap oh woe is me I gotta go back to work woe is me no more days off woe is me boo hoo. Work is never so bad when others die for want of less.
Work in big shiny building
there she is ghastly and gnarled and rough and dirty and worn.
Ghoulish now and grimy but, but
when I see you there sitting in that long tattered dress and your homelessly filthy
locks, picking flowers
I think this!
once upon a green hilly time did you dance in the blue sky
and welcome the ends of the Earth did you think it would never end?
I pass you
as you garden and sit on the dirty Sunset sidewalk outside Denny’s
and pick flowers
well-tended flowers and smooth rich soil wow this Denny’s place really went
bringing a dose of the beautiful countryside to murky
Hollywood the cesspool where nothing beautiful grows but only dies
are killing their precious work the precious work of a gardener they
paid with Grand Slams and atrociously overpriced lemonade
the gardener toiled over the soil and planted these pretty flowers
of which I have no idea of their name cause I don’t do that shit but I can
a pretty flower, a well-kept garden. No weeds, no litter, the soil smooth and uniform
and you sit there
in your urban dungeon
and pick flowers from Hollywood Denny’s verdant gardens.
Your skin, your face, everywhere, it is so rough and caked with dirt and no longer smooth
like it used to be on the hill, the green hill.
And your hands, your fingers so thick and nails so wasted and worn and whittled there is nothing left now
but dirt. Black greasy dirt. Not soil.
It’s as if you’re picking through soil
to pretty up your hands for once.
It’s beauty treatment. Beauty, the beauty
you left behind on the green hill. The beauty of younger days, when the air hummed with sunfire, now
a shopping cart sits near you, filled with orderly disorder.
And what on earth
do you keep