Truth that is saturated in this
city is distorted. So we've become
disconnected from what
is real. You are my only receptive

outlet and thus viable source
of life. So plug me in. All I feel
is static. Let's go up to the roof,
this cool overcast electric morning,

and shout this revelation towards
each pocket of the city. Especially
those neighborhoods held beyond
the brink by a congested economy.

If we could transmit the news into
each needing household. Onto the
TVs inside the stony windows.
"We interrupt your regularly scheduled

broadcast," it would say as
the screens turn fuzzy. And folks
would, in concert, get up and bang
on their sets, “for an unexpected

influx of feeling.” As a cool breeze
blows in.

© 2006 Jonas Kyle-Sidell

Angelina Walked In (pass me another beer, bartender)

As the L.A. sun wanes
     outside this bar, I notice
that, amongst the dragging
     dreams and tailpipes

of this city, your eyes
     are unprecedented.
Revealing the world in
     its rolling glory. Where

you and I are always
     negotiating the reasons
why. Always trying to come
     to a self or escape

an existing one. I'm tagging
     a moment to ask you out
in. Counting on something
     they are telling me.

© 2006 Jonas Kyle-Sidell