Nani and I do the tourist thing: drink
with Beat ghosts at Vesuvio bar, glance
lovingly at one of many book-lover
Meccas, and try to read in the loud
and dark but for noise-cancelling airpods
and weak, weak window light.
My craning lean toward the setting sun
and the alley punctuates each read line
with a glance up at the Zapatista mural
and the large yellow, bookstore sign.
The juxtaposition says: poetry ends
and begins with loss and recovery.
From the second floor of both buildings,
you can see poetry not catch on:
the places known for it are either
unlit and dirty or take too many
narrow stairs, depressed from wear,
on tired, touristy feet to climb.
Christian Hanz Lozada aspires to be like a cat, a creature that doesn’t care about the subtleties of others and who will, given time and circumstance, eat their owner. He wrote the poetry collection He’s a Color, Until He’s Not. His Pushcart Prize nominated poetry has appeared in journals from five continents and over 60 journals, magazines, and anthologies. Christian has featured at the Autry Museum and Beyond Baroque. He lives in San Pedro, CA and uses his MFA to teach his neighbors and their kids at Los Angeles Harbor College.