Crashintome
West Hills
The sunflower, rose high above the Ballona Wetlands.
In the face of a broily summer, much taller than me.
Higher than the long-top trusses and emo blink,
That incarcerated the 90's in this clay-held chic.
Oh, and the hills, those ceramic hills
Cut wet, wet, before the kiln
May roll down around me.
Yet, I speak a tone you haven't heard,
Taking a sip, like a hummingbird
Of a whiskey tweak
The sunflower knows your name
Oh, and I, I, the last of my kind
Know....your name
My head speaks it, and I feel your face
Our hands can clench it, and understand our space
Along the cavernous climb of the PCH
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West Hills
West Hills
