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The Burning of Los Angeles

Truman State University Press

CHAPTER ONE

THE BURNING OF LOS ANGELES

The dwarf is the complete man:
WW II bombardier and Renaissance professor,
Club boxer and rare book collector.
He speeds the endless freeway in his Trans-Am,
Receives the praise of scholae for his estimate
Of the costumes and strumpets of the stage,
And is kept by his mistress, a fourth his age.
She's rich (parents in west side real estate)
And inviting: long legs and dark hair,
Her eyes feign innocence, her mouth a pout,
Perfect for entertaining--she's often sought
For dancing with more hula-hoops than anyone.
Just now she performs downtown, in Mexican bars.
Her agent/mother works to make her baby a star.
Her father she loathes for obliquitous attention.

But the dwarf sees only others seeing him,
Walking at leisure the Venice beach strip.
She totters above him on golden spike heels,
Resting her chin lovingly on his grey head.
He considers dedicating to her his next book,
Explication of child-porn texts del Quattrocento,
Written in Venezia, travel gratis a third NEH.
And after a life of studying Italian deceit
He knows nothing of cuckoldry? Friends she keeps
Fromhis sight, especially the young comedian
Who mocks the little man with exact imitations.
Her svelte body undulates while she laughs
To the delight of this cruel Grimaldi, who bows
To her lace and bracelets, her fresh bikini wax,
The blue veins crisscrossing her right breast,
Her pale skin and black eyes, bulimic figure.

And the comic's wife waits each night at home
The pathos of the most stock commedie ridicolose!
'Tis pity the dwarf spent his short youth other
Than reading Nathanael West, whose visionary
Foresaw the slow, smokeless burning of decay.

THE REAL THING

"Neither of the pair immediately spoke--they only prolonged the preliminary gaze suggesting that each wished to give the other a chance."

Henry James

They were, too, the couple of perfect
Distinction and in particular taste.
Their confident manner when paired
In the excessive after-dinner scenes,
Or as the lingering night intimates
Of the illicit and suggestive allure.
And their knowing the precise image
To project, with slightest arrogance,
A complete emotion in exact timing--
Responses attaining demands of price.

That was their wish from the beginning,
Together in the vacant men's room
Before the full mirror, one evening
In early autumn, the warm and humid
Night ending with their making love
The first time, conscious even then,
Perhaps, of looking for the cameras
And their imminent expectations--
Of Mr. Black Velvet Suave's money,
And their certain self-defamation.

Working days, variations on theme:
A mirrored ceiling angled to reflect
The position of her face, a stained
Mouth parted in the accustomed "Oh,"
Silver glitter eyes like Cat Woman's
Confiding pleasure in seeing herself,
The slender thighs bathed in perfume
Contouring his neck, pressing closer.

Distinct from just themselves, each
Frequented movement should be real
By now, instead of vibrant exposure,
Their conditional blasphemy and hatred
For either life-possible or fantasy--
And for one another, the lost chances.

LOVE SONG

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us...

"Prufrock"

The new pier is concrete, the streets are paved.
The surfers wear short hair--nothing's been saved
Since you were last here, an epoch ago.
Everyone's faster and thinner than you,
The glassy bodies, ageless, browned, and bleached.

Most stands have changed, but the food still tastes of brine.
And the shore is constant, the day plays on without time.
The games remain, world-class and record-breaking:
A sleek-muscled young man digs and dives and spikes.
The crowd shrieks and shouts his name: "Troy! Troy!"

So once you thought you governed this beach...
Now, twice the age of girls catching you stare.
Surprised to find the sudden urge still there,
You glance away and study partial shells....
And imagine you'd still be received well.

You'd leave your life for the Filipina on skates,
Whose long black hair shines like copper in the sun.
It falls on her back to a perfect "v,"
Pointing to the cleft showing above her bikini.
She circles and smiles past you, smelling of lemons.

Down coast a Latina--or southern European--
Knows you're looking and shifts her hips in the sand.
She slowly smoothes lotion on her almond thighs,
Frowning in a glamorous pose she's gleaned
From the perfumed pages of her magazine.

You'll speak with that blonde, just now parting her legs
To better paint her toenails pink.
She unties her shoulder strings to tan--
What will you say? Your hair matches her zebraskin mat?
You hadn't seen her tall boyfriend playing catch.

Is your stroll over? Is it getting dark?
You've had this afternoon to your old self.
Late boats sail toward port, a family lights a fire and sing'
Your wife is waiting to nurse the baby.
They, too, mock your time and lead back home.

PROTESTORS AT DISNEYLAND

"One Hundred Thousand Admission Today!"
One's somberly balked: His girlfriend protests.
Her thick legs are furry, her head's razor-shaved.
She raises a fist and screams she's suppressed...
But who can stir to care,
In line to buy clocks and ears?

Her chubby suitor has Easter-colored hair,
Lacquered to a point like the Matterhorn.
His fading black T-shirt is lettered despair:
Diatribes against the Windsor Queen
For poppy conspiracies
And the board game Monopoly.

Despotic Monarchy! Hierarchy!
It's the Capitalist Patriarchy--
Wrinkling when he folds his arms. Bloody drops
Tear from his press-on tattoo of a daggered heart.
He bumps toward frozen chocolate bananas.
She wants Styx-green syrup, a Daisy straw.

They're bound single file in a chained, labyrinthine path,
Her orange-feathered noserings dotting the loppy straw,
His light downy jowls jiggling sweetened banana--
Staggering a grandmother, foreign-shawled,
Just leaving the Haunted Mansion where she laughed.
The Pirates of the Caribbean at last!

A pirate's life and dress for me! Canon the rich! Take their jewels!
Course slowly by the moonlit restaurant, Blue Bayou.
Her cute pate glows mayhem in the cavernous dark...
Will she warm for Lobster Parisienne?
Dinner served on stepmummy's Am-Express
The Beef Bourguignon makes his social conscience digress.

He'll yet impress her: Stop the Dumbo movie, Minnie!
Those jive jackdaws, loose-laughing, rapping crows--
Intonations of high-wired anathema
Now Bambi indicts the hunting bourgeoisie,
The nuclear family--that's the snuff show
For Disney Dollars at Main Street Cinema!

Fantasyland's his best chance, Small World Cruise,
Sensitive lyrics--she squeezes his hand!
Would he offend to squeeze back? A sticky boy looms
For a character autograph, mistaking him--again.
She winks. Tonight, the Enchanted Tiki Room!
He pens: "Love, Goofy--from the Happiest Place on Earth!"

WHISKY A GOGO

A smoky shout to the sweaty damsel,
A mouthed sham in return without a glance,
The dumbing bass ceaselessly au courant.
Mindlessly stirring drinks of Seinean water--
Caloric-phobic, nothing alcoholic--
They slouch on science fiction wall cushions
And feign to watch the bobbing dance darkling,
The only light swirling in rainbow crystal specks.
He's dressed in black, the ensemble's raiment.
Adieu, she pulls off her black sweater-dress,
Fluttering in ebony lingerie--no one looks.

Parisian as nearby Hollywood sets,
Whisky a Gogo, the rave discotheque!
Arrayal of costumes, leather and silk,
The leggings and tights, the jet miniskirts,
The vests and heels and slippers, some cottons,
Some linens, some corseted in black straps,
Black strings for brassieres armored in gold studs,
Pointed and protective, sinister if small.

All cast by type, the danseur and danseuse,
The charlatan and escort, illusionist
And imports: ciarlatore and cerretano
(The mute chatterer and the blind hawker),
The predator upon the plunderer,
The purveyor and the pursued nymphets,
The croupier smiling with overtures
Promising new pleasures at more expense.

Muscle-bouncing Charon in sleeveless decolletage
Fords five dopey women across the gluey floor:
A famous chanteuse in jitterbug garb,
Her bedmate on ice skates, a boutade--
Yearning to ease her swollen anklets--
A maker of west side exotica,
A flinching bawd from Santa Monica,
And her pursed French lieutenant with crew-cut hair.

They sprint toward "The Black Room," Minos at the door
With his scythesque baton, assigning seats.
He collects and counts (It's the rave!) and offers
Now Lethe, Oblivion, now Ecstasy--
They choose and rise, like Phoenix, as someone else,
Aspirants again, ingenues, debutantes once more!
Floating on this eau de mort, evening into dawn,
Breaking over them last, downstream they go, go...

CLUB CASANOVA

"Watching her most maidenly
press her resplendent, olive-cream thighs
together as she, adorned in sable
designer miniskirt, lustrous scarlet spike heels
and matching silk blouse unbuttoned to her lace brassiere--
a complementary pimpernel, I glimpsed--
all but knelt in the crowd, on the soiled carpet,
one jewelled hand politely on my hip for support,
I blossomed, completely without volition,
not several inches from her glossed lips.

"Yet even as she crouched before me,
pushing her Ray-Bans in place and dabbing
at the crotch of my chinos where she spilled
a double anisette flambeau, I did not think--
as I might have in coming years--
of calculating how best to pursue
to a carnal advantage this occasion
of being burned by a nubile.

"'Oh,' she rose, removing her sunglasses
to catch my averting eyes. 'That's sweet. Really.'
I remember now my misplaced twenties,
learning later that marooning evening.
She took me, to a dark corner booth
above the dance floor--an Arm and Hammer man
called Skippy quickly leaving when we approached.

"Sinking into the plastic-covered bench,
she slid close to me, draping one leg over mine,
running her hand along my inner thigh,
stopping short of the moan. 'Burn all better now?'
As I attempted to resolve whether
this to be the proper moment for our first kiss,
she slowly twiddled with my response,
once more spontaneous and beastly.

"'That is so sweet! You don't know what a compliment
that is to a girl--really,' shaking her head,
gliding her tongue over her whitened teeth.
I ventured a small kiss, her noting,
among her final words to me,
'Yummm, you've got the softest lips.
You can date me anytime.'
Then, standing to go primp, sotto voce,
'Say, what's your name anyway?"'

NUDE

Aging no matter what she tries,
Hating the lies
Of celebrity advertisers,
Their promises
To cover any natural flaw,
She now saw
Through them all: Her husband's chatter
That her
"Beauty" was "charming" as ever,
His clever
Deflections of the obvious.
Her present face
Is neither prized nor lamented.
She's tormented
By a lost portrait of self-worth
And fleeting youth.

Her secret dream in adolescence
Was no less
Ambitious than most of her friends'...

She pretends
Her bedroom mirror's a finished
Canvas
For which she's posed nude as Venus.
Who must
Be the subject of all great art
She thought.
Handsome men and important artists
Would attest
To her beauty and seduction
Always and again,
Her look a permanent pleasure
Forever,
Art glossing any imperfection--
But then,
Why be a model when you can
Just look like one?


Continues...

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Excerpted from The Burning of Los Angeles by Samuel Maio Copyright ©1997 by Samuel Maio. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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