METRO(polis): #33

There's this spot in the back
that you cop once you hop on
at Windward Circle that is not
a perch per se but more quizas
like a spot of honor so you can
lay your forehead on your fore-
head as Venice Blvd reels out
the panes of this orange reggae
whale, this diesel sperm lozenge
unconcerned with the unholy numb-
er of stops, the swift currents
of speedwash and effervescent
lullaby suds, dirges de polvo
that the turbo sign will ding get-
ting out of the gate from shore
to garden hardware stores, from
the statue of Youth sculpted as
a silent movie starlet to Oaxacan
wizards slicing the heads straight
off obstinate pineapples and not
even wincing before catastrophic lob.
By LaBrea, the seat is grinding
vibratto spine therapy and the sun
has turned you into a giant cat-like
moosh, a puddle of short-haired
fur, a coin-op suntan spot with
yellow-and-black striped emergency-
tape over your sunburnt face, or
what is left of it after the were-
wolves get on at the Bzyantine
Gates of the Dead, those stifled
by mofla gigs and minimum
sentinel circuits. And so Venice
tributaries into Main at this junc-
ture and you are still on spot
so behold The Mayan, Pershing
Square and past Little Tokyo's
doorstep into the Union berth
at the foot of the builders
of jails, of Oz, of brown brick
driveways and escalator bling.