Alex Dimitrov


Life is like Los Angeles. Bright and disappointing.
I watched you closely on the pier that wasn’t home.
They grew up in parking lots once and now they are stories;
speeding and smoking through yesterday’s games.
Past the stone angel heads and over the calm brutes,
the freeway thins and wears white like a patient tonight.
I get lost on the way but I always return here.
Once I’d like to be left and unheard from.
I’d like to be nothing.
LA woman, Sunday afternoon.
Take off your jeans, put on a curse.
When in the evenings you fill that one glass
in the mornings you feel it.
The sun’s been a sun for four billion years.
So on these obvious screens where I’m with you
it does get religious. The billboards keep selling us love
when the people are too hard to find.
Patrick, Lucas…I must be forgetting.
I do live without you.
The moon’s been a moon and for no one, four billion ways.
Still…I remember driving up Mulholland in August,
no phone calls or questions. No faces.
You said, “if anyone knows where we are,”
if there’s photos but nothing to show here.
Life’s like LA.
It’s famous and nowhere.
Leaving town I sat next to a senseless and beautiful boy
who asked where I live.
His unwashed hair or the way his eyes were just eyes…
the soul is a tiring thing. You can have it.
I don’t know what you mean’s what I told him.
It’s more simple than that. I’m just passing through.

ALEX DIMITROV lives in New York City.


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