Xmas in LA is so plastic just like Heaven

It’s Christmas in America again & yet it is the first one I’ve ever experienced. You see I have a child of my own whose eyes I use to find that elusive holiday Muse. I try & see the world from his view. I do believe in Santa again. I believe in magic of love. In the magic of giving. Givers never take & Takers never give. I’m a Giver. Always have been. & Though evil resides in my skin, I grin with the knowledge that I too can achieve redemption. I am “savable” in GOD’S eye. & Try as I may not, I do manage to cry somewhat when I view the beauty of my child. It’s been awhile since I walked that mile in my own skin. Since I smiled. Since I crawled out from under the pile of guilt I’ve been buried beneath. I should wear my shame like a Christmas Wreath tied around my neck. I ask though with what do I deck my halls with? MERRY CHRISTMAS

RAZ IN L.A.

My granny is in a room inside a hospital. It is not too hospitable in the type of room she is in. None of us can be at ease with the concept of original sin, floating around. & In this town all seems sinfully unoriginal. All seems sinfully crowned; & deep down I know I am.
So here it is, I am in a room & my granny is in a room & for me to presume I am not alone is to great a presumption to make. Heartache is par for the course. & Depression is prevalent. & So much for irrelevance. I mean how many days have passed since I first asked about my lot in life? How many days passed since Happiness was abound? I wear the crown of a clown & I know it is fulfilling enough for me.

I watch him watch’g me, constantly. He inquires about my state at that moment in time. He seems infinitely curious about my every move. He watches me like a guard watches the prisoner. Maybe I am imprisoned by his gaze, his attentiveness seems to hold me trapped in insignificant gesture & trivial attempts at amusement to pacify, this warden.

What am I to think, this seemingly unknown stranger strolls into this town & assumes his place at my table, holding the largest coffer. I starve to feed my keeper. My host. Who is the parasite & who is the host?

& it was then that I spy’d him. He was atop a vast plateau, looking down at me with green eyes. Eyes so piercing, so full of hatred, that it almost seemed like Love. My son look’d from afar down at me with eyes full of love.

Its raining in L.A. God must think we need a cleansing. She must want to wash us with the tears of his creation. The Supreme Being must want to wipe the slate clean before the sun rises tomorrow. I love when it rains in L.A. because my soul is sick & in need of a complete wash job!

In the Ghetto, a women sleeps on concrete. The man in the corner market steals meat for the family's evening meal. Life seems cheap here. The streets are filled with tales of tragedy & evil. Wickedness walks the pathways unconcealed. Third-World children play at the base of buildings 1500 feet high. I saw that Happiness was for sale, in the slum I'm from, 10 dollars a hit. Life seems like video footage, hard to edit. Pestilence spreads among the masses like a virus. Life goes quick. Twice the speed of regular life; middle-class life. People stuck at rock bottom trying to come up. Yeah, Times are hard; in the slums I'm from.