Sleeping Ugly on the Bus

When you move into Los Angeles,

or at least, when you learn to dance

with its extravagant poverty, or at least,

when its city streets transform themselves

to home beneath your feet,

the fear inside the voice inside your head

will not-so-slowly wane,

and then that same small voice will wax poetic,

take the boulevards that used to cut

like scars across your mental maps

and turn them into lifelines,

take the hostile cacophony and make it

a giant, thriving, collaborative artspace,

hand you a paintbrush, and make you an artist.

You’ll see beauty in all things—

you’ll seem delusional.

You will literally sit down on sidewalks

to write poems that won’t wait

(like this one);

you’ll 'accidentally' get off the bus

at the wrong stop

just to enjoy the sights of the long walk--

and the smells;

you’ll notice that this whole place smells like home(lessness),

but that’s fine, because by now,

you want to greet old homeless men as ‘grandfather’,

you’ll want conceited college kids to wonder if you’re one of them,

because you’re one of them.

And so you let go

with the same eagerness with which you once held tight.

You will stop caring what you look like;

you’ll run to catch stoplights and buses you weren’t gonna miss

for the thrill of the chase,

just to feel your heart race--

you gotta feel your heart race,

and then rest,

at home here…

so you sleep ugly on the bus,

head back, mouth cracked,

and nostrils blooming,

because you are tired--

good tired--

and because its rocking rhythms turn you child again,

you are child again,

except… less afraid.

7/16/2014