Slipping into the ether of another city.
Another skin.
This City of Angels.
Never quite what you imagine.
Freedom to roam to the ends of the earth.
Freedom to become someone else, for just one day.
Liberation, for the price of an air- ticket.
A few thousand frequent flyer points.
And of course, love.
* * *
Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe.
Paris Burns.
"“France'’s Failure," declares The Economist.
Rioters in the streets ignite 6,000 cars.
Buses, kindergartens and churches...
Muslim and West African minorities responsible, say the headlines.
Intifada. Jihad or plain discontent.
A work in progress, either fucking way.
* * *
Restless hours ahead.
Brush Fires burn in Ventura.
Sirens wail deeply into the night.
My baby comes home.
Molds his body into mine.
Just the way I like it.
“Asahi, honey...?”
We watch images of fire, consume prime real estate.
Flaring momentarily, while helicopters hover above.
Over this land of eternal Indian Summer.
“Run, come save me honey...”
I scrawl on a post-it note.
“You don’t need to run, you’re already home,” he replies.
# transmission ends #
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