| The Poetry of Richard Sansom Published by The British Sansom Society | |
 
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| Circus in L.A. Leaving yesterday is easy, you simply go to sleep. Ah, but when you wake in the thistle field with not a sign in sight, naked as a stalk of corn, and realize you've found Los Angeles shimmering under its breath, then its too late to fight. Too late to be an hour younger, or a day. Over head is a dome of muted light, the sum of average faces spread out in some conspiracy. It’s dangerous to resist their presence. They tell you: "Just travel, don't try to find the sea. Look for something simple." Dorothy’s shoes are everywhere, they look so touchable, but for you it would be a fetish, You can’t get home that easily. If you join the megalopolis circus it doesn't pay very well. You’ll ride the bus from Monterey Park to Venice, and everyone’ll know you're poor. If you try to hear the waves someone will tell you of their bravery, and if you don't listen you'll lose a friend. You must imagine the rolling desert dotted with dark eyed Indians, before the Cross was stabbed at their feet. There was water in the whole river and the mud was sweet, the sea shore vast, and the night’s quiet complete. Dig down with your toes and find it now beneath the broken streets. The parable of L.A. sings. The Indians are dancing in the waves.. | |
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