163. Driving, A Doppelganger

Driving -
just driving;
my first fresh air
in weeks.

A side-street somewhere
off La Cienega or
maybe Sepulveda,
late -

a vision
of a dude in
leathers, flame haired,
antsy.

Stricken
I swerve, do a
double-take,
adrenalised:

an apparition
of me in
Ray-Bans
by the road-side

his car
is broke and steaming
the hood up,
smoking.

He’s leaning
and I’m staring
bullets boring:
jaw tight

the night
thick with static,
ears humming,
temple flexing,

glancing up
I see his face
in the light:
it’s not me

just some
kid who looks
like me -
but damn

he looks
so similar my blood
runs cold;
I’m frozen

both looking away
in unison,
coughing nervously
popping a Xanax,

reaching for my
breath, waxy
in my throat,
driving on

taking the ramp
onto La Cienega or
maybe Sepulveda,
heart pounding

traffic monotone
and rhythmic
I keep it steady,
smoking,

damn though
it was like
looking back in
time

seeing myself:
young beautiful
hungry and
unbroken,

seeing that
fearless hustler kid
I used
to know

seeing something
I miss, realising
the past is a
foreign country;

accelerating impulsively
lurching recklessly
into the LA
night -

an anonymous
cavalcade passing
in quiet
succession

heading
in
both
directions.

56. Herb The Landlord

Of course, I remember them.
They were the worst tenants I ever had.

Those guys became millionaires?
Those bums? I don’t believe you.

Doing what? Drug-dealing? Intimidation?
Sucking dick? Interior decoration?

Let’s just say the roaches moved out
when those pricks moved in and it took

three years to get the smell out the furniture.
I mean, who cooks animals on open fires indoors?

They trashed the sofa, the bedrooms, the kitchen,
smashed the sink, the windows, put holes in the ceiling.

One time I showed up to collect the rent and there
were nude girls everywhere. And I mean girls

and I mean everywhere. Not that I have anything
against nudity but they barely had a cunt hair between them.

I even found a half-buried dog in the back yard.
Boy, I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me they

were Satanists, terrorists or they kidnapped children.
I mean - they dressed like they were in a sex cult.

In the end I had to do what I always do: call in
the Samoans and kick their asses to the curb

but they’d already upped and left. They even stole
the turf from my lawn. Now, why would you do that?

I always knew there was something odd about them.
Now it makes sense: they were artists. 'Creative types'.

My kid bought their record; a terrible, terrible noise.
And you can tell them that if you see them. Tell them…

tell them Abe says they’re not exactly Herb Alpert standard.
And tell them they still owe $500 deposit, motherfuckers.