before we’re done
Here now, after there, and before we’re done:
Los Angeles, tossed into the wormhole, kept inside the confessional,
nailed to the sidewalk by angry Korean locksmiths, shouting:
“Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”
The ultimate mindfuck.
Give me your ultimate mindfuck, and I’ll show you the key, out of reality.
We all know it here:
Like Depeche Mode says, one caress, and I’m blessed:
Shivering under the freeway
Standing near a beautiful woman
Getting a new apartment
Going to a show
Standing in a large party
Under the shadow of the Scientologists
Under the shadow of the night.
Give me the shadow of the night, for I am thirsty, and my long wait
must be rewarded.
Let me drink.
It is too delicious. What did you put in it, Los Angeles?
You fucking drug pusher. Pimp.
Give me the night and all its names.
Tell me: am I still wanted?
Am I still needed?
Fight me, fandangle me. Fear me for the flour we’re grinding, hum dee
ho, rum rum:
As Pee Wee Herman observes:
Micka Licka Hiney Ho
And this koan describes a large portion of Los Angeles: ass lickers,
of course, but more, as they transform it into a mystical right . . .
We know Christianity was built by Roman Emperors to fuck Israel.
It is possible Islam was built by Israel to fuck them back.
Or maybe that was Hollywood.
Dream with me, of the long delivery
And dream with me, of the midnight flash
Come calling at midnight
Left drinking at midnight
Turned toward at midnight
Whose name was eternal
Whose light was an ocean
Hum hum hum
Hum hum hum
Who was it took the name from the mountain and put it on your forehead?
You terrible mark
We are a city of Cain’s children. All right. All right, fine. I can
dig it, indeed, move it, wheelbarrow it and reassign it in the
categories of meaning to something fruitful, once we are singing
Give me the long delight
In the rain
Kill Hollywood with me, with each of our long knives
If Titus can do it, so can we
Let’s fuck Israel together
And Rome too
Fuck Mecca, and fuck Uruk for good measure, and Gobekli Tepe
Like Ginsberg says, it’s all holy, baby.
The asshole too.
Still, some things are more holy than others . . .
Give me the long division
In the long breeze
Give me the long night
To open the curtain
I am the curtain
This is a temple
Our cult is holy
And there is no night or day
I am not alive
I am just barely breathing
Our voice is a thousand suns
And Los Angeles is our plaything
If only for an hour
Five months, at the outset
Give me the strong production schedule
Order twenty pints of blood
Polish your hair
I am rehearsing my lines
We have no need of money
We have honor
Even Cain’s children have honor
Even the voiceless are stars
Burn with me, the permanent midnight
Underneath the freeway overpass
Burn Tom Cruise
Burn Natalie Portman
Burn our most beloved, anyone you can name
Anyone of our city you can name
Burn these princes in their holy vestments
Blacken the night with their song.
Blacken the night with me,
And I’ll hold you close
Take me to the river
So we can howl
I am breathing some night I have never seen
Out of the water I can see the stars
This poem was first performed at Second Sunday Poetry in North
Hollywood, September 11, 2016.
Visit Robin Wyatt Dunn online.
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