By a city with no center, no heart, no soul-and legendary for it. A glitter queen with five o'clock shadow whose lovers don't care what sins have been committed. They keep coming back for more, longing to ensnare her/his illusive love. Love promised but never delivered.
Where being seriously in love counts for nothing.
It's all a play, all a script, all bad film noir.

Loving you is an S&M trip. You gave birth to me. And while I love you for that I hate you for the painful afterbirth. I hate you because you are never the same twice in the same day. You are constantly somewhere else. You are constantly someone else.
Loving your horizons while hating your gutters. Your ob-scenely glorious fall skies that redden as deeply as any earthbound passion. The sun a big luscious lick. A visual bliss ozoning. Soon to be followed by a moon to swoon for, heavy and broad like the exposed doughy thigh of a tired old Hollywood harlot.
Loving your chaotic sprawl yet hating to share you with others. Jealous of your ethnic diversity yet drunk with the perfume of sweats that assaults the nose.
Loving your outsiders. Your street racers, dragsters, low-riders, cruiser-bruisers, cowboys and Crip Dogs. The lonely who find solace traversing freeway interchanges. The lonely who drive slowly seeking the answer in shadowy doorways, off alleys, on gas station service lots after closing. The lonely who get off on eyes found only in the dark corners of certain clubs.
Loving your money potential. Loving your fame potential. Hating the way you make a sucker pay and pay for a slice of dream that is never delivered. But you bleed the poor muthafuckas to death. And I'm bleeding for you.
L.A. you hot but you too damned cold to love.

You are one long relentless drive nowhere sometimes in circles always in heavy traffic. Gridlock is a state of mind.

Your nine commandments of Love:
Thou shalt not get old.
Do unto others before they do you.
Thou shalt not yield right of way.
Thou shalt honor thy real estate and insurance agents.
Madness is method and mediocrity is profit.
High profile talks low profile walks.
The lacking in horsepower shall inherit the dust.
What canít be sold is of no value.
Make Believe is the only reality.

From NATIVE IN A STRANGELAND :
Trials & Tremors, by Wanda Coleman, copyright 1996.