The Skeleton In Alan Dershowitz's Closet: The Resurrection Of Sue Barlach, His First Wife Dershowitz's First Wife SUE BARLACH: Victim Of Tragic Domestic Abuse,

why i love LA?

diversity

foods

architecture

strung out on new radiohead

the present tense especially

and sick for amnesiac days, and giddy happy

needing a clown suit . . .

confused and not confused by my own brain, patterns so predictable

skulls

yves klein blue in london lucky them

crooner

hours on the phone discussing tort reform . . . study . . .less bambuser

all these up things!

and think of robert thurman

kate crash plays dragonfly tonight i think--so much energy.

architecture, sorrow, happiness

optimistic sarcasm?

how these words ever held any meaning then

and punching them out like ticker tape, to see how confetti lands.

talking, how i love talkers, and ruined in a glance

and content with complexity of emotion . . . nothing new under the sun?

and this

eras of illiteracy forming cultures of debasement

the impoliteness of honesty, to presume, the foot in the mouth?

or rather . . . and the heat and smoke still tearing up the health of we tortured angelenos . . . rich with russian, spanish, armenian, thai, the many faces, foods, ways . . . and the abstractness of our mellow death march through smog and into automobiles.

moving here is the closest thing to suicide . . . so like smoking, trimming years off the life with deadly inhalations, deadly scenarios.

but so to was being raped, beaten, and strangled in nashville tennessee, or imprisoned for thought crimes, braingarbage, expression, language, art.

suicide to enter the racist zone of bible belt misogyny---my nostalgia is with sorrow for you backwardsland.

and then it is with sorrow for california too, with SUV mobile prisons, scarce recycling, a grave homelessness epidemic, so many lost children. and then the reasons that were incidental, seem even less, and comfort and illusions of affluence, to be entertained, stay put.

hungry.

hostility of the flesh.

new manicheans.

opportunity

denial

the train to edinburgh french and the angry man, potted hummus, third world oblivion, arrogancies, colonial outposts, relics of the isolated DNA forced upon itself by limited technology of travel.

curiosity over lost friends, and the end of care.

lost books.

memories of books.

memories of people.

the cool clean interior of the high-VOC library and the old drama building at montgomery bell academy.

dead poets . . . arrogance, racism, old south money, sexism, obliteration.

people today walking around, trapped in the film american beauty. today, imprisoned in SUV's fast food tom sach's art installations . . . trying not to get killed. trying not to notice the homeless you step over on the way to the train, on the way to your "life."

acting like its not 2009, but maybe 1950. like recycling never crossed our minds, seriously, as a city.

the commerce sytem so clearly divided along colonialist lines. the slave trade with a new face, a new name, euphemized and freedom in a box.

i wonder how liam is, at barney's.

how funny he said "what are you trying to educate me?" when i brought him a book of samuel beckett and baudelaire fleurs du mal in french and english. what a solace he was . . . what courage to go on another day in the salt mines of bev hills retail.

the journals--years and years of journals that hit the recycling in 2004.

the heartache, the freedom. the writing compulsion, as if it humanizes a bit, makes sense of these animal days on square streets in the google map. smiling with the teeth to do so, hiding under layers of cloth, sickened by happiness, hunger, glued to a screen, checking for a sign, a digital sign, above a real human somewhere.

payment for interaction.

service

vandana shiva of food--a noble profession to nourish.

and days when hunger wanes, and the sight of a friend, to restore the possibility of nourishment, this morning, oh my jackie.

dreams of music, anxiety for music, so impatient for more, i can't stop singing and humming.

the present tense . . . acoustic, reminding me of my father's music in my life for so long.

and then the wish for a one of many words and many books and an open civilized mind . . . and closed systems, many loves, perfection in a glance.

and when seen again, i will fall again to the floor and crumple up like a ghost, that is how much i wish for an embrace, but am so incapable of finding . . .

and the embrace to shatter all others

and the digital in-betweens.

music and dancing, the traditional drugs, opiates, nullifiers of any question.

perfected into oblivion.

the end of money.

can't wait to get out of xenophobic america . . . or to die and be through with this stupid world, with indefinite detention, eternal detention at bagram air base, human rights violations, years of freedom lost, life baking on the streets of cruel los angeles, earth buring, wartime, doubletalk--- but fear my health will grant me a long long life . . . get out of it, get it out of you, get those words out of mind, stupid meaningless words of hate and division, falsehoods obscuring truths.

humanity . . .

hungers