O Santa Monica You Ain't Venezia Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

With the wind blowing
Over stretched bodies on the sidewalk
Nothing virtuous about that municipality.

It's unlikely to waft the caulked-over sins.
The thing is no one bends over the carcasses.
Must be the locals know O Santa Monica

Not to breathe in crumpled mental addicts
Spread on the park benches
Neatly lined on the famous promenade

There I crossed path with too many foreigners
They all looked alien
But then myself I'm of Cossack provenance

But O Santa Monica who am I to complain
I who after a half-century still speak
As if recently dismounted from my horse.

Leisurely inching over to the fallen woman
I ask if she needs help.
With glazed eyes she solicits me… for a hit.

I straighten my bent spine, step backwards
And nearly trip on the next corpse. But it
comes alive. I guess she just tripped and fell.

But again I see no one stop to help
And with my cardiac condition
I'm in no mood to gather her spilt apples.

O Santa Monica Good bye I shall not come
Here nor stare down anymore your ruby sun
Drowning behind Venice Beach

Unless I bring a bottle of Vodka
And my stash of marijuana and with them
Maybe I‘ll raise the not quite dead.