I don’t smoke weed, I smoke palm
trees. I rise into clouds like
the 110-105 interchange. I take back
airspace from a LAPD chopper, examining
freeways; concrete ribbons, anchoring our smog
and beaches to the West Coast. Each night
I dream about Wanda Coleman.
She tells me one day I’ll be
as big as the Watts Towers. She says,
point your finger in any direction, eventually
you’ll hit a freeway. Her laugh, a roar.
I marvel at how Manchester Ave. creeps
into Firestone Blvd. I promise myself
when the freeways begin to crumble,
and the city drifts into the Pacific,
I will stand watch. When the final palm
tree goes up in flames, Wanda
Coleman’s roar will be the last thing
I want to hear.