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Los Angeles 2001
May 6, downtown 1st and Vignes. Concrete and brick warehouses bleached in white sunlight, distant hazy buildings, plastic Rite Aid bag hissing softly across the concrete in the gentle morning breeze. Water stained bridge pilings, steaked soot and graffiti, wethered telephone poles look like cactus skeletons beached near white in centuries of desert dun. Cracked sidwalk grows one grapefruit tree, stunted and yelloly but somehow slinging to life in the hostile concrete environment.
Thin TV wires bisect the sky, loping from tellaphone pole to pole running like s string of crucifixes along the highway, carrying reruns, news breifs, news of death, electiricty crackled and whirls in the rusted gray boxes near the tops of the poles. distant roar of deisel trucks crossing the bridge. Leprachan troll image lurking under the bridge with dynamite and gold while the busy ness of man carries on without notice. The underground, the middle world, the ded languages of mystic poetws that can only be moved from gibberish by the wonders and now lost but now found castagraf transmitter.
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