If you don’t 
find God on a freeway 
in Los Angeles, you’ve 
never had a spiritual experience.  

Remote qualification took place in 
a multilevel “tri-sexual” club,
where anything goes,
with a nice, nasty 

dance floor for
vehement grinding 
to pounding, loud industrial music.
Mommy and Daddy’s music.

Then, life in my 30’s, coming 
into Los Angeles, with a Jeep was 
beach air and 
highway shimmer, 

Church’s Chicken and taquerias, 
cholos and señoritas eating 
my wife’s white chili out the back,
with the biggest jalapeños

her buck could afford, pumping bass 
popping screws, and 
Arlo Guthrie mixes with Snoop 
and Ice Cube.

God gave her to me 
and God took her away, although
she said the Source would take me 
first, and nothing,

nothing but this, nothing 
but that I’m still most alive on 
asphalt spaghetti
where breezes blow 

from the West, 
where ocean will boil,
the sun takes a skinny dip 
and each nipple fizzles.