White glare,
Dying faces
Bobbing atop ragged bodies
immersed in 4 A. M Hate
Downtown November
Los Angeles season.
One screaming ecstatic drunk
(My friend notices
A resemblance to Oscar Peterson),
Preaching in circles.
Last rites.
With animal certainty
I shiver to his sounds.
My body listens well
And smells his carcass future.
I saw leaving in his eyes
Amidst the frenzied cement night,
Leaving like a supernova
Of blinding brightness
That flickers desperately against the shadows
Implying immortality.
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