Time Out
by Mark Smith-Soto
The gift of death glows through the October afternoon.
Nothing stranded in the seasons belongs to eternity.
But I feel like a god sitting on my back porch.

Only a god would look to the left like this
and understand the redness of maple leaves
and hear the cardinal shiver in the holly

and feel the sun and cold wind sweep
through the porch screens and not care
what time it is, or what time is,

barely remembering when things were different,
the azaleas aflame, the lawn a velvet rug,
the loved woman wandering somewhere in

a poem. And this moment too will end, is ending,
the acorns pattering on the roof are saying so
with the fanfare of their leave-taking,

the gray neighbor dragging her recyclables to the curb
is saying so, even the geese calling over the house
proclaim I am not a god, no, not a god —

but my hearing’s tuned beyond any murmurings,
the afternoon stretches on, golden and heedless,
and death itself is just half-listening.

It all starts with grey hair

I wonder what their lives are like together? Two men, grey haired: one in full pony- the other groomed silky like a grandmother's- sit near me on a lonely bus. I couldn't help but glance twice as I notice their matching white soccer socks pulled up a few inches past ankle length. Further along their fit, curly-haired legs hangs their almost identical olive shorts at the knee. As we ride further through our six minute bus ride, the pony-haired man starts a conversation loud enough to satisfy, or annoy the bus travelers of six. It isn't so much that he is feeding words to and from someone, but that he is spitting them out loudly enough to evoke a sort of wisdom in his tone of voice- quaint enough to match his grey hairs. Although the techno music playing softly aloft the bus is nice, I decide to listen to what this intriguing old man has to say. "I live next to Alvera's." If I was a native, I would know exactly where he was talking about. It is probably some little Mexican stand the Angelenos go to for a late night pick-me-up of mouth-numbing hot sauce drizzled on a mountain of green tacos. I must say, southern California knows how to prepare a mean Mexican dish, for obvious reasons. A thought enters my mind at that given moment: Why can't I live here? I always dreamed of the romantic, bohemian lifestyle of Los Angeles: going to concerts every other night and having a circle of friends who only know how to play the guitar and paint a masterpiece of modern interpretive art. But that is just a dream. A dream often reminisced when I come to visit a different artery of LA each time. But being alive and sitting next to a real-live Los Angeles native made my want even greater. "That's the street I grew up on" That one? "Yeah, I lived here my whole life." That's a nice street.


My senses came to me at that second. I took a look outside the Plexiglas and noted Los Feliz on the street sign. A town hip but edgy enough for people in their mid-twenties to reside. Not as easy as say Beverly Hills. The desire in me is growing now. More because I see what I could have. Do you see it? Probably not by the way I describe this snow globe world in my mind. Do I really want it though? Meaning, would I like it once I commit myself to actually moving? I have no choice but to make the best of it. It could go terribly bad, though. If that circle of friends doesn't blossom then I have no choice but to exist in a solitary manner, trying to make it through the day and prove to my parents I was right in choosing this life. The one I want so desperately. Right? The one that in fact leads to misery. For it is the dream that beauty thrives in, Not the reality.


Griffith Park passes by my dreamy window: again my wants and imagination take lead of me. I strive for a loft on this fuzzy, urban boulevard. That would be it. I would have come! No more thoughts of my future reality living in a cardboard box equivalent to an apartment for one. Wooh. Sounds like a nice box. Actually an apartment equal in size to a box is more like it. I would be producing my free lance articles an hour before due time. Coffee-ring stains would line my "nightstand" composed of books entitled: So You Want To Be A Journalist. "Retro" coffee cups from the mid-nineties would fill my cupboard up to the top. A nice benefit is that they also serve as cereal, soup and ice-cream dishware at the same time! Now that's innovation. I don't mind. I would sacrifice it all: the glamour in the details of fine living to obtain the LA life.


Ding! Get off the bus and to your home now- your time dreaming is up.


But wait. There's those guys again, walking next to another pair of men from the same bus. They look happy soaking up the sun and enjoying one of the day's simplistic gifts, such as a bus ride down Los Feliz. Who knows where they are going. Their lives don't look too far off then mine. Perhaps it's my Gatsby of a dream that is too remote to even consider anymore. It's just a thought. My thought. A place I can visit each time I read this.

A new love to my ears:

"Ferraby Lionheart wants to be like Gene Wilder.He wants people to care about the planet.He wants people to care about other people.He wants a garden, and some chickens.He was born in LA, although it is often written that he was born in Nashville.This is because he grew up there.And perhaps because his music sounds a little country sometimes.His sister watched Mary Poppins a lot when he was a kid, so maybe that’s why he likes show tunes so much.His 8th grade Algebra tutor had a guitar. That’s where he got the idea.He practiced singing to Chet Baker records when he went to art school in Chicago.Ferraby started making 4-track recordings when he was 18.They might have been a little crappy.He kept trying to write songs for a long time.He moved back to LA because Chicago was too cold.He tried being a grown up, but it wasn’t very good.He is pretty smart.But not that smart.He served pizzas for a little while.Jon Brion played shows next door, and somehow Jon knew one of his songs and invited him on stage one night.He was so nervous.Ferraby had a rock band, but after a few years he got sick of it.He’d rather sing softer."