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85 on the 405

Paul Lojeski: Smog bitch goddess of Bukowski and Hollywood and desperate dreams burning above that hot concrete on the 405, doing 85, 85 on the 405.
Los Angeles Traffic

85 on the 405

throttles hit hard,
the hardcore hustling
lane to lane on fire
in the Church of LA—
hunting paydays
in the dusty sunlight,
an end credit rolling
under a golden sky,
heaven in the up
front cash, points
off the gross,
flesh oozing down
the blood red carpet—
LA…LA…smog bitch
goddess of Bukowski
and Hollywood
and desperate
dreams burning above
that hot concrete
on the 405, doing 85,
85 on the 405…

See You at Eleven, Boys

Her half-naked breasts
in the low-cut, black party
dress saluted as she leaned
forward and began hectoring
her audience about high

pressure and cold,
cold fronts hurtling down
the coast. Then she stood in
front of the weather map, tall
and straight and that dress was

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short and she wore black
stockings and shiny,
black high heels and there
wasn’t a man within viewing
distance, who gave a damn about

the apocalyptic blizzard roaring closer
and closer like a hungry hound
from hell. And she smiled
her fiery smile into the camera
and said, See you at eleven, boys.

Lottery of the Damned

Cabbies, zombies,
schoolteachers,
werewolves, garbage
men, waitresses,
truckers, nurses,
vampires, nuns, me,
and millions of hopeful
others lined up, hundreds
of miles of us barking,
growling, howling
at the cameras as if
this collective need
for cash, for safety
and security in a land
celebrating indifference
as dark dogma was
actually an uplifting
spiritual event, a riotous
party instead of pathetic
riot, standing in neat
rows snaking out of
convenience and liquor
stores shore to shore,
eyes ablaze like mine
with visions of a tropical
island and long sandy
beaches upon which
I walked as sole proprietor,
waiting to buy a ticket,
to grab a chance at winning
mountains of swag, where
scraping by had become
a vicious art form and
desperation the ration
of the day. We knew
victory was nigh on
impossible but what other
choice was there? We
couldn’t stop dreaming
because the dream was
all that was left in this,
our American nightmare.

Paul Lojeski