Two Scenes From Los Angeles

[coolfunboy]

Two Scenes From Los Angeles

I: The family that owns the bodega on the corner
Outside, midday—
sun baking pavement,
reflecting off the blacktop,
bringing the air to a stagnant boil.
Young girl singing to herself, trash can lid at her feet
filled with repurposed mop water and a squirt of soap.
Her mind dwells transfixed in a world created anew
with every swipe of her flyswatter bubble-wand,
a world of iridescent spheres
floating frenetic up through the ether.
Laughing, still singing, eyes glowing,
she wonders just what each bubble is thinking
and why it would ever want to pop.
Older boy crouched next to her,
sidewalk interstates laid out before his toy truck
in endless figure 8s.
Clicks and clacks of scuffed plastic on concrete
play percussion for the symphony of gurgling engine noises
spewing from his pursed lips.
He swerves and squeals a swirling crescendo of demanded attention
as he pulls on his father’s pant-leg,
to no avail.
Their father leans against a wall, static, stoic,
phone in hand,
blank expression spread across his grey, unmoving face.

II: The park under the bridge and by the river
The sun is setting and it’s breezy.
All the trees are glimmering.
The leaves shake and their green gives way to the auric glow of a slowly dying day.
Shadows pass over a middle aged couple seated at a park bench,
telephone wires casting their faces in shifting silhouette.
Here and there,
a man passed out on the grass with a bottle of popov as his only pillow  
and a broad grin of blissful dreams plastered across his twitching face,
a man playing fetch with an old dog,
chickens running hither, thither.
I’m sitting away from it all,
catching sidelong glances that linger just a bit too long
from a man with his son.
There’s graffiti on the trees.

[71degrees]

Two Scenes From Los Angeles

I: The family that owns the bodega on the corner
Outside, midday—
sun baking pavement,
reflecting off the blacktop,
bringing the air to a stagnant boil.
Young girl singing to herself, trash can lid at her feet
filled with repurposed mop water and a squirt of soap.
Her mind dwells transfixed in a world created anew
with every swipe of her flyswatter bubble-wand,
a world of iridescent spheres
floating frenetic up through the ether.
Laughing, still singing, eyes glowing,
she wonders just what each bubble is thinking
and why it would ever want to pop.
Older boy crouched next to her,
sidewalk interstates laid out before his toy truck
in endless figure 8s.
Clicks and clacks of scuffed plastic on concrete
play percussion for the symphony of gurgling engine noises
spewing from his pursed lips.
He swerves and squeals a swirling crescendo of demanded attention
as he pulls on his father’s pant-leg,
to no avail.
Their father leans against a wall, static, stoic,
phone in hand,
blank expression spread across his grey, unmoving face.

II: The park under the bridge and by the river
The sun is setting and it’s breezy.
All the trees are glimmering.
The leaves shake and their green gives way to the auric glow of a slowly dying day.
Shadows pass over a middle aged couple seated at a park bench,
telephone wires casting their faces in shifting silhouette.
Here and there,
a man passed out on the grass with a bottle of popov as his only pillow  
and a broad grin of blissful dreams plastered across his twitching face,
a man playing fetch with an old dog,
chickens running hither, thither.
I’m sitting away from it all,
catching sidelong glances that linger just a bit too long
from a man with his son.
There’s graffiti on the trees.

"There's graffiti on the trees" Great image. "In" the trees? Just a thought.

Of the two scenes, the second is mine. I'm there w/you. I'm wondering where you are in the first. Didn't bother me until I read the second, and you were there. Even though you are catching sidelong glances, you are the recorder. Just something I noticed upon a first read. Another reason I would say this is the detail is much more attentive in the first scene, and again I would ask: How would you know these things? Was wondering also about that detail (e.g. how does the boy make all the engine noises and drive the toys if he's pulling on his father's pants leg?). Some of the happenings are instantaneous yet there is a chronological order of physics that must be maintained for it to remain real. The second one has this order to it. The first one doesn't. I like the spatial order of each. They both unfold in an almost slow-mo atmosphere. I like that. Thanks for posting. And again, welcome.

[billy]

i really do like some of the images you painted here. the first part of the poem captures a traditional scene in a photo-sharp way. the reader is able to be part of what's going on. in places you use excess words (i pointed a couple out, there are some more through out the poem) these should be hard to find. ask yourself if words like just, but, all, and and are really needed, only use then if they help the poem be better read.

part two is another great panoramic  view of a specific place while panoramic in style the reader is still part of the scene (for me he's the viewer/vouyer the poet speaks through) again there is some excess word use (small words that could be done away with in order to make the narrative tighter.
thanks for the read.

Two Scenes From Los Angeles

I: The family that owns the bodega on the corner
Outside, midday—
sun baking pavement,
reflecting off the blacktop, i find this a hard image to see, i could see the sun reflect off the tarmac but not the pavement.
bringing the air to a stagnant boil.
Young girl singing to herself, trash can lid at her feet
filled with repurposed mop water and a squirt of soap.
Her mind dwells transfixed in a world created anew the action here and below works well in showing us a scene/action
with every swipe of her flyswatter bubble-wand,
a world of iridescent spheres
floating frenetic up through the ether. would a comma add something more after frenetic, or is up really needed?
Laughing, still singing, eyes glowing, this might be a bit hard to do, try it; eyes glowing with or like what? is she perhaps happy or irradiated?
she wonders just what each bubble is thinking no need for [just]
and why it would ever want to pop.
Older boy crouched next to her,
sidewalk interstates laid out before his toy truck
in endless figure 8s.
Clicks and clacks of scuffed plastic on concrete
play percussion for the symphony of gurgling engine noises
spewing from his pursed lips.
He swerves and squeals a swirling crescendo of demanded attention
as he pulls on his father’s pant-leg,
to no avail.
Their father leans against a wall, static, stoic,
phone in hand,
blank expression spread across his grey, unmoving face.

II: The park under the bridge and by the river
The sun is setting and it’s breezy.
All the trees are glimmering.
The leaves shake and their green gives way to the auric glow of a slowly dying day. another solid image i wonder if a line break after green would enhance the image of giving way?
Shadows pass over a middle aged couple seated at a park bench, [on] unless they're seated on something other than the bench
telephone wires casting their faces in shifting silhouette.
Here and there,
a man passed out on the grass with a bottle of popov as his only pillow  
and a broad grin of blissful dreams plastered across his twitching face,
a man playing fetch with an old dog,
chickens running hither, thither. hither, thither doesn't seem to be in the same language as the rest of the poem

I’m sitting away from it all,
catching sidelong glances that linger just a bit too long
from a man with his son.
There’s graffiti on the trees. would a line space enhance the the final vision.