The napalm line in the pacifist trees,
it moves like a cracked whip
arching up and forward;
the metal bird up and forward.
Simmered in our aftermath,
I’ve shaped her as my own heart
and swaddle it with assurance
like a negligent father
hugging his grown son.
She loves me desperately. She is me,
and I am you
telling me what I had wanted to hear.
But then I leave in the dark, back to the dark
car parked in the empty lot.
I’m high and hiding.
I lie to spite you.
Hacking through it
like a grunt in the elephant grass,
hurriedly lighting the hamlets
as the hellish whispers of the jungle night wax.
It does not want me here, the jungle;
it smells of oil and malaria.
My girl is a fever too, slowly coming down
and she will not want me back.
Her enemy is mine.
Her enemy is me.
– Los Angeles, CA