I am driving three middle aged men from Venice

to their hotel in West Hollywood.

They are in from Dallas, Texas.

They keep randomly mentioning hot chicks and sex

it seems odd and forced, posturing. For me?

Any silence is quickly broken, by talk

of some girls tits or ass with rousing agreement.

Nervous anticipation when we drive through boys town.

 

Aaron Paul is sitting beside me in a powder blue classic,

my young passenger is losing her mind in the backseat.

 

I’m driving some teenagers talking in code.

They keep mentioning something that happened.

Then one says something about a body.

There is a quiet pause for my reaction.

I should turn in at the next dark alley

and leave a quiet pause for their reaction.

 

Amy Adams is on the phone sitting in an SUV

She whips the visor to block the hot sun on her face.

 

A Trump supporter is angry at me for the surge, 5.1

because most of Hollywood is going to the protest.

 

A man is standing on a curb in Hollywood

shitting into the street.

I think it’s his own personal protest.

 

No one has eyes like Rami Malek.

We stare for a moment in traffic on Wilshire.

 

A rider asks to put on the Justin Bieber station

He asks if I like Justin Bieber.

I tell him I do not.

Then you haven’t heard the new album.

It won’t matter. I say.

Oh that’s just a one star then.

And he did.

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