Litany
Capital of potholes
City of crime
County of multi-peoples
Closet of dreams
My
L.A.
Place of progress
Home of the poor
Location of locations
Space of shining hope
Ocean of the Pacific
Sands of footnotes
Land of palm leaves
Gathering of wheels
Destiny of truth
Taste of youth
Sound of noise
Grab bag of choice
Sky of clear blues
Cement of hard times
West of East
South of North
Ciudad de la musica
Residue of insurgents
Aqui de Alla
Zen of then
Bastion of politicos
Scene of green-screen
Lover of losers
Environs of laid backers
Abode of wanderers
Arena of takers
District of destruction
Grounds of divorce
Vale of hills
Breath of Santa Ana
Life of stills
Water of Owens
Posture of art
Region of miracles
Dwelling of believers
Den of integrity
Resident of apartments
Crib of pads
Nest of the unsettled
Address of the craven
Room of the lonely
Seat of the lawless
Digs of the homeless
Habitat of the forgotten
Range of vastness
Haunt of the seeker
Hangout of movements
Estate of sunshine
My
Los
Angeles
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
April 6, 2013
Scorpio on Fire It is November, a hot feverish Fall upon L.A., bereft of believers in city life cum strife, they away in cul de sacs, hills and groves-- paradises backed against wild brush like gangsters surrounded, in places called El Colloquiata or La Pensivista. It can’t be November, searing conflagrations cluttering red-blood skies as wisps of family histories float down on the innocent. Really, it is November, voices clamor for attention over helicoptered nights, dreams scarred by sirens scatter across trees black with remorse. A defiant sun, a crazed moon beat down on words and images, heroines and heroes, cops and arsonists, reporters and raconteurs, agents with forms, homeowners now homeless. We on the flatlands, the cement core, some of us under freeways, watch the story and wonder: What was it about us that made them flee?
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach November 18, 2008
Arise
I will arise
and not rush
toward security.
I will arise
and not indulge
anxiety.
I will arise
and defer to
birdsong
rat scrabble
ant whispers
and
dogs stretching.
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
June
2004
Last of
the Scorpios (After Derek Mahon)
I want to be
like the woman
who enters the ladies room
to powder her nose
and is never seen exiting.
Or the woman
who knowingly disappears
down a dark lane
swinging with her purse
indifferent to the night
and the language of exodus.
Either way, I am done
with a civilization that
lives by its past
dies in its past,
last of the Scorpios
I shall defy convention
and crush my own skull
rather than prolong the
agony in the garden.
Many years I have crawled
in multiple forms
during which time
I have stalked my soul at night
and scoured the earth by day
fending off all trespassers
upon my song,
calculating a fine scheme
of a time away from this place-
a mansion of ideas
far from reality.
But the little people
will not hear of it
and mandate my mind
to join them, awash in
car alarms, garbage ceremonials
and gated cities,
to be a willing captive of history
to exit, one of them, and be grateful.
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach June 20, 1998
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
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