Bruce Fisher

Gotta Get Back to LA

I gotta get back to LA
With my new old car,
Rusty of empty beer cans
And dentine wrappers
Stuck inside  paperback 
Shakespeare third acts of
Endless stabbings of villains 
And fatal flawed heroes,
Losing its whiskey soaked
Pages in the back seat under 
Dusty memories of what I 
Should have been,

Where I was drunk in sober life,
Longing for a buzz
At Bukowski’s San Pedro
Dream house, writing his mad
And beat poems till the end
Of no unglad post office pension 
And cat lover mysticism, in his
Punch drunk of barfly skid row
Flop house craziness, undone 
By death but never dying,

Where the clarity of smog
Induced sunset blvd call girl 
Lust sings sweetly of soft
Inner thigh promise, where
Miracle mile tattooed legs in 
Thought are cold in the youth
Of Echo Parks murky water,
Rowing chinatown boats to 
Groovy back lots at Paramount,
Before rushing to the next
Sexual conquest, trying to
Find the perfect end line for 
My new spy novel,

When purple evenings
And mid August moons 
Woke me to cobblestone 
Depression remedies with vodka
Inspired early morning shots
Of Silver Lake blue dawns
Before shooting scenes 
With the ghost of sad and stoic
Clara Bow, angel now of
No time silent film heaven
And my invisible love on
Nights when the streets
Were empty of women,

Where Chavez Ravine
Evictions and cries of no home
Latino heart of holy Mary
Became my drunken home
Team fan’s dodging of old
Sadness with ball park beer,
Cheering riot of blue until
Fernando came with his
Mythic screwball, throwing
No hitter pop ups, shutting out
All hate of gringo heart with 
His quiet ways, 
Seeing the lie of countries,
Like a vision suddenly widened,

Where I couldn’t be a hippie
And pet a stray dog’s lonesome 
Head without crying for eternity,
And tears of noble failings drifting
In high places, letting go
Of ancient hate, but
Haunting my own living body,
Seeking forgiveness from whores
And whiskey and penance
In hangover mornings not 
Knowing where I was or how
I got there.

I gotta get back to LA
To remember the song of the
Prophets who sang to me
During all lost years of drunken
Fucking in the cheap hotels
Of Santa Monica boulevard doom
Washing ashore on the fancy
Beaches of Marina del Rey 
Where angels kept me warm,
Wrapped in wings of love,
Whispering softly that I was
An angel too, fallen but not
Forgotten, for LA is the city of
Angels in truth and only angels
Are there living, breathing, walking
The streets, making movies
And playing baseball,
Selling tacos downtown,
The best you can eat
This side of heaven.