Ode to Los Angeles What poet would dare and with what license driving your boulevards and

avenues? leaving things to chance that cannot survive or gambling with nothing for everything Writers are beggars what else can they be? They mounted their letters on the hillside and in that place where sound is forbidden a need of singing and a lullaby. Who can sleep with the silence it endures to be heard but without an audience patron would not sustain its full sentience and its volume would consume all water what I say makes no sense to anyone it is its authentic embodiment.

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