This L.A. lust

(L.A. must)


must be some kind of shadow

seen prior.

A forlorn

pass go


so shallow from

the realm we can't see together.

I faked seeing you and couldn't find the words to

speak on reverberation

heard quick. So slicken

                      back to me.

All imagery.

A projected machine

oiled serene,

so to seem

sort of timeless,

grimeless and

lucidly seamed.



as a billowing cloak

floating effortless


Covered in urban insight

a flimsy townie dreams,

What is depth with out the lack;

the surface slack reflected back?