The Dean of Echo Park

voices carry, repeated
over traffic and sirens
intersected by Sunset Blvd

the pond lined with Lotuses
the streets with motives
sidewalk votives to patron

saints remind patriarchs
of their mortality
their morbid idolatry

in the shadow of the statue
of José Martí, Cubans hold
festivals honoring the man

in the shadow of Hollywood
studios, silent comedies
stooges and chaplin

on the eve of Halloween
when addiction dried
a river to ashes on dust

at the back of a bar
where actors, guitarists,
bassists, all vipers

premature stars of the screen
and of the street meet,
pupils dilated and bleat

living for the fleeting
moment just before sunset
as a monarch flutters by

migrating south with a migrane
higher than a kite, stumbling,
his whole life ahead over heels,

bumbling that life like a bee--
stung, strung-out, pronounced
D.O.A. like so many films

straight to video, appealing
to the basest of motives,
that need for youth to cheat death.