BANSHEE SEASON

I wish it were unusual
how the damned wind always
seems to roll back
in I thought this
morning
my cigarettes
long gone from the balcony,
flown down to that dried up
excuse of a
river.

It’s really not that strange,
for if I have learned
anything
at all pretending to live in this goddamn
city,
where there’s everything
for miles,
it’s that I can always count on
those fucking
Santa Anas to rush back in,
steal my smokes,
and drop you off at my
doorstep.

Because
that ballistic banshee-
sounding
piece of shit wind
is screaming at us,
all of us zombies who call these streets
home.

Oh, and she’ll keep knocking too,
at our windows,
our minds,
like the demanding impatient bitch she is,
year after year,
until the day we listen to her warning:
Wake up!
Get out!

And live.

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