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Tourist

You swim against the current,
tourist, trying to get somewhere
you wouldn't usually go. Take
the 101 or the 210, or for the
lights and glamour, take Sunset.
They're just scent marks, guiding
us loyal pups, us locals, back to
the teats of the city, where we can
suck a few more years off of our
lives. Such good children we are.

You, you're just symbiotic parasites,
caught in the thrall of the rotating lights,
the smell of kabobs, laughter, and exhaust
that permeates our air. You laugh at
Superman, who wanders in front of the
Kodak with Batman and a few others.
You can't see the sweat beneath the suit,
the desperation in his breath, the way the
locals avoid his crazy eyes. You buy
souvenirs and hot dogs that we won't.
You provide the cash, we provide the flash.

Hollywood's a fun town, if you're just
passing through, someone throwing scraps
to the pigeons, the homeless, and the locals.
We have to work here, to fight against the
undertow every dawn, and again at dusk to
nest at night in the Valley, just outside the god-
awful stench of Hollywood. The sign in the
hills looks down, making sure you're
all having a good time. That we're all
working for our nickel, knowing that it’s
plated. I know where you need
to go, tourist. Take the 101 to the 210 and
head east out of here. Just don't take the
scenic route. It's not worth it.


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Things are beautiful if you love them.
- Jean Anouilh