Nü L.A.

Renzo says this town isn’t even rocking anymore man

pulls black cap to brow

measures guitar against light

he ducks the awning to noodle away the afternoon

in our garage just scale after scale

I’ll see you after

the boys open me with their shit-talk at b-ball

scour my soft husk for wounds

too bad my rat blood spills out

from holes where my sincerity used to be

now everyone is slipping in my blood

it’s not even a game

I’m too encouraging

too positive in my feedback inauthentic shallow hoarse

we’re tripping in the blood of the talk

they are like my debaters

they look for my weakness I give it to them

because the plague didn’t take me

where my skin gives like wet tissue they push

I ride my bike away from the court

leave it in all its glory and blood

under the plywood squat where people live on planks and rugs

a few dudes fix a motorcycle

finally men

I slip-n-slide until it’s all newts in the mouth

newts from the overfished creek

their gums seep

sick from human breeds

little gums spilling little human arms

babies already spoiled

the men don’t want my blood-sweat

they want my newts

I watch the skaters lick the hips of cement bowls with their boards

they bend the parabolas to their will

briefly perfect over the hip

a roller skater dances to himself lost to the beat

he looks like my father or me

a girl twirls in green druidic gown

in the creek the newts hunt stick bugs

like hermits they hide in bridge shadow

in heroine light Renzo and I chatter over candles

like dogs grooming hair and thought

I tighten my helmet against the sky

deep in the tank they pluck the angel dry

until it’s all pink squeal deep in the tank

I am addicted to the kid’s mean grin

a warm swarm of bees have my address

BMXers autonomous flip me off

it’s murder all the way down

I plant green beans in the asphalt’s opening

new itchy and liberated landscapes pour forth

some swell or construction

I’m barreling like forced thought

gunky in the stands

it’s a xanny doc

all the rage

some new cult flick

put me in there coach

information bathes the room blue

I’ll fight any dad here

Will Vincent’s chapbook, Wildfires: I-XVI was recently published with speCt!. His poems and articles have appeared in The Elephants, Scout, PANK Magazine, Entropy, HTML Giant, and The Iowa Review. He co-wrote a short film with Adam Shecter and edited a chapbook of the same title for the video installation New Year, displayed at the Eleven Rivington gallery in New York. He lives in Culver City, California.

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