Balmy nights and flirty eyes,
music on the beach in the evenings,
inhaling all the shitty air our lungs cling to,
his beating heart thousands of miles away,
the vines in the garden moist with expectation,
the promise of poetry before bedtime in the morning,
standing in line for a Savages set,
giving life back to music,
chasing this temperamental existence,
all the romanticism of modern living,
decadent eats on our table out in the street,
speeding home with the windows down,
our voices lost from earlier in the day,
the moon disappearing behind the skyscrapers,
silence befalls our spinning heads,
our love is sealed into the future,
we’re the children of summer.


It’s a fresh summer day
this breeze feels right
black iced coffee under the shade of whizzing bees
lush with green archways and pink flora
your voice circling around me like a ring of hummingbirds
the cars zooming by
police sirens going off in the distance
those Sunset Boulevard palms swaying lazily
as the hilly side streets join them
and no one seems to mind our emblazoned chatter
we’re daydreaming consciously
spouting preachy ways of life every which way
tell me how my life became so sweet
on this perfect Saturday afternoon?


That distinctive but familiar Mexican rhythm beats over and over again as the singer’s voice wails during the chorus and then falls into a steady kind of endurance round. The bass guitar keeps it all in once piece, doom, doom, doom, doom. Just earlier, a violin was being played, each note strung slow and careful.

But tonight feels special. The air is sweet, the charm of summer has taken me in and I can’t get enough of its scent. I’m attracted to its loveliness in the hopes that I’ll latch onto its black wings and fly off into the starry horizon. I find my table in the garden of my favorite café and lay my things down as I stare up into the twilit sky, my spirits soaring with each gust of summer wind that caresses me. How could any one be inside right now? It’s too beautiful not to enjoy something sweet and spicy. To sit out and think. To ponder. To take pleasure.

Oh, you. A reminder of what I’ve missed for so long. The spark in my head. Perhaps I love the idea of you as it inspires me. You’ve lit another path I would explore. You’ve ignited that tiny flame in me that will rise ever higher as I keep going. The best part is that I don’t mind that it may all be blown out of proportion, that it’s my way of being creative in bringing about abundance from something so small. It couldn’t feel more right. So long as the idea of you is there, I have enough to create my canvas. Enough to paint with. You, handsome soul, are my muse.

Los Angeles, I’m yours.