poem of the day 10.20.10

venice beach

there is no point
trying to play artists
at venice beach
the hustlers already have
me beat
hawking rap cds
and medical marijuana
selling bad paintings
of bad landscapes
there is nothing to do
but wade in the pacific ocean
with my shoes on
try to spot a celebrity
toss the seagulls
the cilantro off of my fish taco
there is no point
in anything at venice beach
no need to make sense
of poetry, los angeles
or the world
i can just sit here in the grass
as the surf rolls in
froever unknown and hungover
letting my face and scalp burn
in the unrelenting sun
use the l.a. times to cover my eyes
forget that new york ever existed
there is nothing
but golden infinity in vencie beach
fake houses and fake people
all along the boardwalk
fake beer in the fake bars
t-shirt stands by the dozen
and the unbounded horizon
enveloping the ocean
stinking of the
west coast vibe
burning my eyes
like the yellow-brown smog
that hissed up this morning
southbound
on the 101.