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Letter from a New City to an Old Friend     [SEAside          Gra-                         -im Ronny Burhop 1987-2010                                                                      ffiti]   [adjust             Even the white noise here is different—        trACKing] there’s no boulevard, no blue and breathing ocean The streets—more quiet now, winding through rain, hidden parks and open markets— [chriiiiiiiing] are cobbled, and twist off into alleys less sinister than ours There’s history [REprise] in the street names, true—but the mystery, the footsteps’ muffled click, the concrete sea bRZeE rolling below my window is tame, bloodless… [BRiX ‘98] We fell off the world for years in LA [SoDen I can only remember the haze now,             eAcH       corP how our vista was never really clear                                       oWn of smog, or planes, or neon bellied clouds                                           a sOul?]   I split Left you standing with a pocket [My grambag                full of lock-                            of                  less keys, a few bucks, two lighters and I tRixY                         drove the forty miles back home Years later, rEds]                                        I’m hoping, perhaps we can just look back,                                         tuchhhh—                                                                                —MIDAZ recall it before the cards were flipped— our own Cassidy and Sundance era?    (EPIX x I turned my back on California,                             X) on those two-for-one, from out the Honda [Malverde]       hustlers, sunburned illegals, los santos… And I have thought about nothing else, since   I heard about your dazzling surrender [oUr buRnT-    Guess I should ask ‘from whose bourn’ and all that, but I can’t fucking see how it matters oUt      SCAPE]                                                           Anyways, it’s probably December right now in your coastal town, every crow                 * JauREZ— crowding the power lines, jostling Each one                                       Bosnia vacant, thinking only of its single                    del SUR* green walnut, the distance to the pavement                             ‘grAFT’                                                             -NoV16, 2009-