The Sand Hill Review            http://www.sandhillreview.org        2001 November

 

L.A. Poem: Northern City Slickers

 

In the flat bed of a pickup in Santa Monica a tall trussed Buddha gilt but guilt-free faces backwards

slowly moves up Wilshire Blvd. along to Sunset destined for a ritzy garden or private temple.  Ersatz

 

or the real McCoy?  The warning cry of an electronic bird’s loud chirrups cuts the morning as we try to

cross the road against the red, rivaling the true bird’s song among the palms, the decadent overblown

 

hibiscus, luxurious and viscous, that borders the sea.  A cyclist piston-pumps his legs to power

his wheels, up and down, instead of making the pedals go round.  My mean friend Karen’s mysterious

 

footprints in the Venice sands are narrow as a deer’s.  She swishes along diaphanously in her stylish

ankle-length Northern Californian floral black chiffon city slicker business skirt, refuses to make

 

any concessions to being on the beach spontaneously in soft smog-greenish Guardi light.  My other

friend Jules’ body, a bicycle, its curious side-to-side loping motion when she walks or reads she stands

 

somewhere between wolf and Latin dancer as she lilts to the music of her own poem, her lean lithe

jockey figure and Joan of Arc eyes grown wide with her imagination, both competent and stylish

                                                                       

she’s apt to forget where she’s parked the car.  We three conjoined together in a distant city to share

each other’s spaces easily, fairly, familiarly.   Gales of love and laughter overflow us as we mince

 

our way past gate signs reading Armed Response on Schwartzenegger and Stallone lawns, cops

reluctant to tell us where the john is, suspicious of our out-of-townness and other-worldliness.  Do

 

they suspect us of rapid drug deals going down in sordid beach cubicles?  Our fevered San

Francisco brains already team in their way-altered poetic grooves.  Our joint poems beat to the

 

Triadic sporadic tonic sounds we make. More platonic and diatonic than dominant or flamboyant

but the cops don’t know this with their extra heavy beltloads of bullets slung to their hips,

 

as they swagger down Third Street Promenade shifting the homeless, the proverbial shiftless.

 

Gini Savage