Turn To Los Angeles And Pray Awhile


Mark Andrew Holmes

Dream dreams of juniper and lemons, in a city of gold and lead,

And regard Miss America lying nude and supine under warm bright lamps...

On a dissecting table.

The elevator cable snapped—

She's not coming back—

Or is she? As she is?

Listen to the obolus rattle inside the bleached white skull—

Charon didn't need it;

That ride was comped.

Eventually, the rightful owner of what you garnered wants it all returned...

Can you base a feature film on your life?

Have you died yet, and do you still live?

Will ochlocracies dismember you as they adoringly chant your name like a mantra?

Or will it be just you and a gun and a half-empty bottle,

In a squalid chamber even rats despise?

When you pass the lure of fortune, the Earth smiles like a stern mother—

Beauty, evanescent like grass, just smiles a rictus smile.

When you throw off the silver collar and mount forward toward the light, walking regardant,

Reflect that you determined the burden you carried yourself.

© 2006 by Mark Andrew Holmes.

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