living in the day
sun crisps my wrists
the way i hold
thundering wisps
all day i roll in LA
and no one honks
hisses or quips
they have actors
clones of every
celebrity on the strip
from Sam Jackson
Catwoman, Ariel
Wonka, and even
Bumblebee, that drip
they all want those
empty stars on the walk
between two immortals
between cons and prose
my lucky stars slip
and drift, drift
like butter in the pan
bubbling and charring
like the papery skin
on the back of my hand