Fractured models flood my vision, broken
Emotional maps of a lost world, like the
One Jesus came to save, have become lost
In my glove box as I drive through LA.
Embryonic spores, pregnant, seething, lash
Furiously across the horizon,
Springing forth like palm trees from a rotten
Pomegranate, cratered and decayed;
Seeding cracked and ruptured highways, vacant
Parking lots, and bloody pot holes, waiting
To be filled by anything, even a disease
If it will fill the schism, and seal the breach
That runs like urine down a cinder block wall
From my pulpy heart, an open sore, in
The flickering light of ever changing
Digital billboard displays.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
resembling a post-apocalyotic LA... I would have to get out of the city, away from those digital billboards etc. Nature does ya good, it really does.