Lost Angeles

Detroit, CA - Circa rn

Your services are no longer needed. Like when the auto industry went international. Or big banking went bust downtown.

Un petit mort. Not the funny French phrase for orgasm. Literally - a little death.

Avada Kedavra. One hundred years later - three unforgivable curses: Covid. Double strikes. Fires. What’s left is a wasteland no one deserves. The soundtrack litters your skull: the dude playing music in the gym out loud who also sings along to it. The actual gym music. The music you stuff in your own buds to drown out the others. The chick who brushes past you mad gabbing in Mandarin. The homeless dude zombie-crossing the exit. Karen recording it on her phone. An angry line of cars in the parking lot: green means go.

A cop blocks the road. There’s been an accident and it must be rubbernecked. Maybe someone died. Look it up on your phone. A man waves a sign to remind you: Jesus is the way.

You finally move but hit real traffic. Which is worse than ever though no one has jobs, or soon won’t bc of robots #SecretRecession Was anyone gonna tell you the key to survival is selling pics on OnlyFeet? You stop for gas – now serving unmutable ads at a pricey pump. A billboard reminds you: an attorney is there. 

There's no place like home. With $5k rent and $20 lattes. You forget to click your heels. In the distance: the Emerald City. Greenlit and glowing from California’s production incentive. A shortlist of a dozen projects airdrop into the valley for relief. You and ten thousand filmmakers clamor for the rations. You realize – you’re more likely to get in a car accident than work again in Hollywood.

You pivot and write a book. You have a platform – you tell your agent – look how many followers.

"You’re not a celebrity. No one cares."

You smile to yourself knowing - we’re all celebrities now. Since the decentralization of entertainment and its toilet flush to socials. There’s glitter in the thing in your hand. The one that keeps you up at night with blue light headaches and fever-brain dreams. Lift that chin up. And that $10k tit job. Who needs a career when you can be a stay-at-home influencer.

You pop into Peet’s for a pick-me-up. You're nice to the server. She used to be Spielberg.

Look alive we're taking a photo. To keep those posts consistent. To pretend we're here and not perpetually doomscrolling. Lift your gaping mouth for air I’m sending this to family.

Remember books? Me neither. Hey did you see that Tiktok? Hang on Im getting a call.

Shoot for the stars. Even if you miss you can masturbate on the moon.

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