My world is a whore, and Los Angeles is the pussy of the world.
Holly-world squats and spreads its legs, and, again, Los Angeles is the dank sex you see revealed, wet and fragrant with a thousand odors both delicious and pungent. It is my source of some of my lushest of pleasures and it is a breeding ground for every vile disease known to God.
I love LA.
The pussy of the world, I like the sound of that.
That’s all right with me. I like pussy and I love LA.
There are a million names for my world, a million vivid descriptions: LA the Gangsta, LA the jealous, LA the Vicious, it is the eater of young souls, the destroyer of everyone’s hopes and dreams. But to me she always has been and will remain LA the gorgeous, the one and only, she stirs my imagination and fills my heart. With love.
I always find refuge on her streets. She is the goddess of today. The princess of yesterday. The queen of the future. She can riot and kill and burn and still awaken again tomorrow, rise up, and be beautiful.
No one in Los Angeles can say for sure what made the dead souls start wandering the streets. Whenever I venture there, I can never tell the living from the dead.
Los Angeles is a city relatively unsurprised to see anything, and takes no special notice to see the dead walk and feed on the streets. In the nightclubs. And in the stores. It has seen it happen for almost a hundred years. This new twist is nothing new.
My favorite place is on Sunset at sunset where I can see the best and worst of Hollywood. Sunset is painfully beautiful in the light of the setting sun. The last rays melt into the sky like a Tequila Sunrise. The nightclubs raise their lights into the fading orange sky.
Tonight is Friday. The thirteenth. With a full moon. A time for lunacy. I see an occasional transient scuttle past, the earthly remnants of my city. Above, in the hills, fires begin to burn. The lights of ground stars. I can see where families cast their shadows on the open windows. Light scatters towards my holy land.
People can carry within their hearts their fear of strangers, of the strangeness of everything, but not everyone wants to be one of the dead. I walk along the city streets. The breeze carries the pungent aroma of my love. I think back to Texas. And I realize how many years ago that was. When I’m well away from Sunset, I wander back into the maze of narrow streets and alleyways that lead toward the ocean.
A warm breeze blows in from Santa Monica and sighs its way through the winding streets to me. It feels very late now. I hear the murmur of voices in a rhythm of my footfalls. The low voices call to me, telling me to wander into the wrong neighborhood. But, this is my town, there are no right and no wrong neighborhoods.
I cross more streets and find myself. The streets are always unfamiliar in my town, and I can find myself in places I had no idea were there anywhere. As I walk closer to the little shacks they call stores. I watch the doors open and close. I begin to listen.
The smells reach me before the women. To spend your life in Los Angeles is to be attacked by a thousand odors that are pleasant and disgusting, the stink of shit and urine and garbage, the sweet scents of perfume and clean skin and ocean air.
I come down from the ride and see them. The beggars and street urchins. The flotsam and jetsam of my beloved. Those dead things that have always been more alive than the rich and famous. Slowly they turn towards me and stare through me. At this moment I feel alive.
I feel the beckoning of my love. Come. Be part of me and live forever. I can’t remember turning to run. But I know I did. As the sky begins to glow with pools of light I find myself. I wander through the wasteland of graffiti and garbage. There seems to be hundreds of abandoned houses and cars. And many more dreams cast aside here. It is LA’s forest primeval. After a time I realize I’m back home. Once again in the suburbs. I walk for a while in that watery light that fills the darkness before the sun finally breaks free of the shadows of the night. I slide down the embankment and feel my way up to my cul-d-sac. On to the street where I feel as safe as any child in his mother’s arms. I let the sun rise.
Los Angeles is gone again. And I feel safe as the dreams drift over me like leaves from a fall breeze. I am safe even here, on the outskirts of my city. The city of love. The pussy of the world. I am safe from the living dead that walk among us.