When I first arrived on the scene, I didn’t know what to expect. My hair was still straight back then. I hadn’t brought it to the ocean yet. I was still just picking up pennies on the main road and ditching knives behind fences at construction sites. I was still getting my bearings and counting my marbles. The three I had were in my pocket. Black. Yellow. Aqua. Like the end, beginning and everlasting time on earth. I call them the first, the last and the forever expanding. But they’ve never told me their real names. I hold onto them like they’re my personal treasure when really, they’re the only thing left in my pockets.


I arrived with 45 one dollar bills and I used every penny of that on a cup of coffee in the mornings. I needed ideas, I didn’t need a well fed belly. I was working while I was walking. A change of scenery helped me not feel so stuck and the flowers reminded me there was still beauty on this earth.  I didn’t know anyone in town and I didn’t know much about the town so I was excited to stretch the cash as far as I could. I didn’t want to waste a thing and I wanted every interaction to be economical. If I couldn’t make money, I at least wanted to be remembered by the town. When the city finally puts my name up in lights, my community here will be the ones spoken at that podium. They’re the ones who kept me going. They kept me in existence when I was in exile. The men that sleep on the park benches would be the first to know if something had gone wrong. I don’t know who I would’ve called if I got in a car crash. The little kid I babysit doesn’t have a car and his father is blind so I just kept walking. I didn’t let my directionless voyage hold me back from taking another step forward. There were people who watched and there were people who mocked. It didn’t matter to me. No one knew what I was up to. That was between me and the west. LA knew the tales from my whispers on the PCH. You should’ve seen the look in my eyes, as I saw the ghosts of my path. The ones I thought I was here to save, apologising for blood on my carpet. 


The two Shell stations sat diagonally at a 4 corner intersection on Santa Monica Blvd and 14th Street. One was run by hispanics. One was run by indians. I don’t know the tale of how the two got to be but I can tell you I’ve driven all around, as far as the eye can see and through the canyon graveyards and I’ve never seen two gas stations of the same franchise sat like they were suited for war. The only thing that kept them from fighting was the fleet of cars that passed by in either direction every 30 seconds.  There was just something about this city that made you wanna go mad. Kick someone to the curb and give a middle finger to the sky. Curse you, you sun. You. It was like the whole place went out hunting for blood during the day and bathed in moonlit rooms at night. No one had a job and no one didn’t have some form of income. It’s wild where the wind doesn’t grow. I just so happen to live around the block from these two stations. A nice little place on S 3rd Street where the sycamore trees don’t grow anymore.


Now, I enjoy gas station coffee. It was more important to me than rain or sky shine. I had to start the day with a cup of coffee or I couldn’t start the mind’s work.