m o g u l s i n l o s a n g e l e s
H E R M A N B E A V E R S
The cognoscenti know God is what matters, if only for the twenty
minutes it would take to spin pitch out of white lies. In the backseat
quiet, muscles flexing in an arena of bruises, six-year love affairs
captious as an Oldsmobile running on cheap gasoline, neon buzzes loud
as flies raging over the scarred earth. Classical tidbits, world music,
ragged half moon license, archives of kitsch. A majestic disturbance,
this kiosk of rain: you say she did have fans?
City of philistines: the year just following listeners made up, riding
saddles of verity; did a room over. Lies make tears seem precious; an
eclectic form of soulstretching. Throw a radio somewhered with a view
of the river and aficionados might ponder the linguistic tangles; old,
slow metaphors for metastasis, altitude a sacred conspiracy.
Corporate hatemail on hold, a winter sky emergency. Damn! Even the
smallest people write off Los Angeles.
The station charging rent, awfully touchy about "My Favorite Things."
Postulations on dead air, psychic handgrenades of imbalanced diction,
elegiac plums. You could roux a special edition of hurt. The country
married to ventriloquism. In the Haze(d) scuffed face of evening, you
can watch the instant fracture, become public radio insiders with the
tools to perceive. The station's canned all the things a dog can do with a
newspaper-running them every afternoon for a week. Publicly
connect to score for Henry V. Rush hour, one dark December, the
valley in absolute alarm.