Where does all the trash go?

off of that eight hour flight,

midnight—

sipping on 

the breathless murals 

of Los Angeles

flickering bugs inside buildings,

my eyes trick me—

the road rich

with white and red streaks, 

where am I?

105>110>101>10

EXIT

drive me home sister/

black streets, 

the lights are brighter here,

the sun too, 

less green

no mot-mots hovering

no rumbling 

no ash

no helicopters

no gunfire/

wait—yes, there’s gunfire

there’s rumbling

there’s nothing left to do this late at night,

a park waits happily grinning,

peristaltic waves pain my limbs to sleep

eyes wide open, 

I breathe 

in the air 

of these tropics,

this desert—

where am I?

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