there are certain things that stick, 

San Gabriel Valley things, 

that sink

into a poem…

this is a drink

and a cheers 

for a moment in time, 

I want to leave behind—

Valley Blvd., 605 duck farm, Bassett, unincorporated “town,

in or near or alongside La Puente

which translates to Bridge

and known among the locals

as Bridgetown…

It’s not complicated, 

you live in a place and that place loses its grace or it holds it in place,

and you stay like a battered wife stays

trying to hold space

you can criticize me or this town

I do it all the time,

 and if you’re from there,

you know that

the words you say 

I’ll make you swallow down—

meet me on the corner of Amar and, 

no, the railroad tracks on Valley Blvd., 

by the McDonald’s,

where the largest stretch of strip bars live,

where the Satanists have parties 

for their 18th birthdays—and you’re invited

taco stands, 

like any other town, 

only in this town it hits different, 

goat meat tacos on June 6, 2006

…in it are ghosts in the parking lots of churches, 

where you park and 

watch a woman give head to a man

more than likely

not her husband

as you listen to BAUHAUS with a boy who looks like Steven Tyler, 

only gangster…

you take a hit of nasty, brown, dry weed, 

Steven Tyler smiles at you 

and you think he’s cute

but he’s boring

and I’m on hold from my dreams, 

so fuck it, 

enjoy it

your purple gel pager goes off,


I call him from the payphone in front of Chris’s burgers, 

Puente and Amar,

if you know


nothing serious, just faggot shit—

He lives on Ragus St., your best friend, 

Ragus is sugar backwards,” 

he tells everyone that shit/

that was his catchphrase before he ran away to WeHo, 

now you can watch him on Zoom as Abortia Clinik: LIVE FROM LAS VEGAS

doing drag to the songs 

we used to blast 

while we were high 

off his father’s Pretendo—

Summer in the SGV while driving on the 605 in the 90’s was exquisite

25,000 ducks smelled like home, and

if you’ve a penchant for Peking duck 

and had the wheels to take you somewhere fancy 

not fries and a coke for 3 dollars at Chris’s,

and you lived in L.A. in the 60’s

say thank you 605 duck farm three times for good luck—

An ode to the devil the moon and the muck…

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