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Orangethorpe Avenue

by DeepBlueGypsy 

Posted: 11 April 2008
Word Count: 287
Summary: A work in progress, still can't find my poetic voice yet, stumbling around in the dark, but not giving up....


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Cheap Monthly rentals drive-up Motels converted into efficencies still renting rooms by the hour, smells of urine and cheap parfume masked by Pachoulli insense. Slumber is always disturbed by the flickering neon lights from the Open Air Laundry Mat across the street,sandwhiched between the busy Pakistani convenient store and even busier low-rate funeral home. Amazing Grace can be heard all hours of the day.

Voices from the Islands echo from the alleyways,
marijuana growing on the rooftops. LA County's finest circle everynight in their Million Dollar helicopters and still haven't found this harvest.
Illegal Mexicans keep their heads down low,
12 to a room, pissing on the bogunvelia outside their door,drunken yelps of pain when one stumbling into its thorny branches "Joder!" I hear as I deadbolt my door at night. What a way to learn spanish.

Ramona, the 7 foot tall Transexual struts her stuff in plethera and leopard skin, her 1979 Buick Riveara is open for business six nights a week. On Saturday nights you'll find her at the Karaoke Bar at the corner of 17th Street murdering ABBA songs in her skretching falsetto.

Mind-altered aging hippies, waiting for their pension checks sunbathe around the micro pool, vacant expressions haunt their faces as their skin transforms into mahogany leather under the relentless sun of Southern California.

Single moms quit their jobs at the International House of Pancakes so they can turn tricks for more money to feed their unwanted babies. Pimps and Hoes battle it out over their cuts of the nights take, the one bleeding the least wins.

My time here was short, thank the merciful lord, but Orangethorpe Avenue opened my eyes to a slice of Americana that haunts me to this day.











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Comments by other Members



joanie at 19:56 on 13 April 2008  Report this post
Hi, DBG. I don't think that you should be searching for your 'poetic voice' because this reads as poetry to me!!

How about:

Cheap Monthly rentals drive-up Motels
converted into efficencies
still renting rooms by the hour,
smells of urine and cheap parfume
masked by Pachoulli insense.

Slumber is always disturbed by the flickering neon lights
from the Open Air Laundry Mat
across the street,sandwiched between
the busy Pakistani convenient store and
even busier low-rate funeral home.

Amazing Grace can be heard all hours of the day.

Voices from the Islands echo from the alleyways,
marijuana growing on the rooftops.
LA County's finest circle everynight
in their Million Dollar helicopters
nd still haven't found this harvest.
Illegal Mexicans keep their heads down low,
12 to a room, pissing on the bogunvelia
outside their door, drunken yelps of pain
when one stumbling into its thorny branches

"Joder!" I hear as I deadbolt my door at night.

What a way to learn spanish.

Ramona, the 7 foot tall Transexual
struts her stuff in plethera and leopard skin, h
er 1979 Buick Riveara is open for business
six nights a week. On Saturday nights you'll find her
at the Karaoke Bar at the corner of 17th Street
murdering ABBA songs in her skretching falsetto.

Mind-altered aging hippies, waiting for their pension checks
sunbathe around the micro pool, vacant expressions
haunt their faces as their skin transforms into mahogany leather
under the relentless sun of Southern California.

Single moms quit their jobs at the International House of Pancakes
so they can turn tricks for more money to feed their unwanted babies.
Pimps and Hoes battle it out over their cuts of the nights take,
the one bleeding the least wins.

My time here was short, thank the merciful lord, but Orangethorpe Avenue opened my eyes to a slice of Americana that haunts me to this day.


I liked it!

joanie





James Graham at 20:41 on 13 April 2008  Report this post
Divi, this is familiar to me - I mean writing a piece of prose that later becomes a poem. Often when you do that, it lets you assemble the ideas without having to think about verse form at that stage. I'll get to know this better and get back to you.

James.

Ticonderoga at 14:51 on 15 April 2008  Report this post
Leave it alone........no point chopping up highly poetic prose to dress it up as a poem.............this is a PROSE POEM and a very fine one.........intense and vivid in a very Beat way.....some of the smoky syncopation of Kerouac at his best. Love it!


Best,

Mike

DeepBlueGypsy at 18:22 on 16 April 2008  Report this post
Joanie,James and Mike thank you for your input, Joanie I really like the format, it reads easier that way. Mike, Kerouac, Really? I haven't ready any of his work, I just know of him, I'll have to check him out- James, I look forward to more of your input. Thank you all, I'm still struggling physically to get healthy and poetry is a balm when I'm feeling ucky! Blessing to all, Divi

James Graham at 19:44 on 16 April 2008  Report this post
Hi again, Divi. I tried out some ways of turning this into verse, but couldn't get it to work - i.e. breaking it up into verse lines (despite Joanie's attempt) doesn't enhance it but leaves it more or less as just a piece of prose split into lines. Mike's comment decides it. This isn't a verse poem in disguise, it's a strong piece of poetic prose - yes, the kind of thing written by such as Kerouac and Scott Fitzgerald.

One paragraph did seem to work quite well, as a little cameo without punctuation (and with a couple of changes):

Mind-altered
aging hippies

waiting for their pension checks
sunbathe around the micro pool

their faces haunted
their skin turned mahogany leather

under the Southern Californian sun.


But all the same, you should do as Mike says - leave it alone. The Muse of prose-poetry has visited you. The other Muse will be along soon, I'm sure.

Take care.

James


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