Golden City (edit 2.)

[billy]

hi nozaki, this seems to be more of a new poem than an edit. which is of course okay. for me the first poem felt better more consie and more clear.

in the first line of city of angels i feel confused as to who what tenderloin is which sort of makes it hard to lift myself further into the read. it's use in the 2nd stanza makes me think the partner is a a piece of meat [metaphorically speaking] with the nic tenderloin.

in the third i'm again unstuck with the opening word [tazza] and the last stanza takes away fro the good parts you have in the preceding stanza's.

I. City of Angels
Tenderloin, where you come alive only for the stars
to stick you with sharp things, is not a place for words: 
the violence films my lips as I roam, searching great image and good enjambment.
for words to rip the creativity out of you. You lie 
in repose when I return to our room, bruises opening
like wine on your cheeks. It would be art, surely, 
if I stepped back, but for what, would you flourish? 

II. Uproar
What my youth does to me, I know. 
My words break like fever, moving not sure the simile works as a fever that's breaking is a fever that's receding. a suggestion would be to change break for another word.
through the city with an anger that
snaps. You cannot see me smiling, 
but you know the emotion. I feel like
I could kill. I do to my youth as 
it does to me: I light up. Tenderloin, 
where you are either bored or sober, 
either dying or dead, is not a place
for- infatuation? No, it is love. 

III. Tazza: The High Rollers
This
is what gambling does to you. 
This lack of sense, 
it's a hazard, the hearts-
the lives, the chips- 
when we lose
again 
and again (you shatter me, 
you 
child, you infidel), why are these words being used. for me they need to be fleshed out or changed to something that fits within the story.
all we will do 
is bet on 
another. 

IV. Rise
Already angry that we've outgrown each other, I call only to hear you ask why. 

You haven't called. 
I was busy. 
You always are. 
I know. 
Are you in L.A.? 
I never am. 
Do you love me? 
Yes, I love you. 
Where are you? 
A party. 
Fucking on me? 
If I wasn't fucked up. 
I was worried. 
I was tired. 
You always are. 
Do you blame me? 
No, I love you, 
I love you, 
I love you, I 

cuts, scabbing into lines of poetry: the violence films
my lips as I search for the words to rip
the creativity out of you. it would be art only
if I stepped back, but for what would you flourish? 
bruises open like wine on your cheeks.
so loving you is so much harder than knowing 
that I just do. already angry that we've outgrown
each other, I call only to hear you care
enough to ask why. this, 

this 
lack of sense, 
is an example of gambling done wrong. 
it's a hazard, the hearts-
the lives, the chips- 
when we run out, 
all we can do
is bet on
more.