That house was not a home but it sure wasn’t this damn cold.
I do not know this place well.
There were a few minutes of hail the other day.
It rained for a while too.
Still no snow,
This is the West Coast.
It was cold.
A helicopter was flying too close to a building
It was just an airlift.
The clouds covered the sky.
It was dark.
It rained hard.
Still no snow,
I thought of the last time we talked.
Did we even talk that much?
It is too bright here.
The sun is out far too much,
And it is hard to remember
If you even knew who I was.
The trees here are not to my liking.
The sky is too often without clouds.
There are too many cars
With too many drivers
Going too fast to nowhere.
This is California.
I still walk everywhere
But not enough
And my feet have finally started to crack.
This sun is far too bright.
This place has no seasons.
The roads are too long.
There are not enough signs.
I think too much.
This is Hollywood.
Is it okay if I say this place bores me to death?
I do not care for the Pacific Ocean,
The waters are too clear.
Its current is too calm.
The Atlantic has more character.
These beaches are filled with sand.
There are too many body builders,
With heavy weights and bad tans.
This is not the ocean I love.
There are too many women, rail-thin,
Having lost too much weight
For those bright lights.
And too many men
Expecting some kind of film star end.
They all here seem to be waiting
For that Hollywood vision of perfection.
This is not mine.
Walking fast with broken feet
I forget if you actually liked my company.
The streets are too broken here,
Trees growing too far and fast,
Their roots break the sidewalk.