the city of angels is a city of gypsies.
a city of folded hands, the oak of golden dreams.
what siren called the sagebrush bohemians and wandering hippies?
apostles of hedonism in the factory of dreams.
the garden of allah, who knew?
the lights of LA in the basin canyons,
sparkle of sand from the ocean to the desert banyans.
i too, like faulkner drew.
influence blew like the mountain winds dew.
on twain, london, kerourac, huxley, fitzgerald and sinclair.
a home in exile now decays in noise.
nature has a way of getting rid of us.
los angeles keeps her secret hidden in trust.
i am just passing through...
