Some years ago,

I was bore of this state.

But it was another that raised me.

So it is that I have now returned,

the bastard son of California.

Why is it,

That so few songs,

have been written,

about being here,

while so many,

muse the desire,

of California.

"California Dreaming"

"Going Back to Cali"

"Going to California"

"California, Here I Come"

and many, many more…

"Like, love it or leave it dude."

What’s to love?

Closed beaches?

Tweekers?

I never heard the term "Tweeker,”

and never did I meet,

so many people in Recovery,

and 12 step programs,

before California.

My friend and I,

Peruse the porno pages,

and I ask him,

“Where do they find these girls?”

and he says back to me,

“LA”

and he is right.

LA,

That paradise of pornography.

The real Silicon Valley.

No one lives there because they want to.

They all live their because they have to.

I stand,

amongst a flurry of:

lattes, wraps, smoothies,

soy, organic, vegan,

no MSG,

Not Dogs and Smart Dogs,

pita bread,

and 10,000 types of hummus.

Everybody has their thing.

It’s fine when it’s true,

but more often than not,

it’s this thing,

that they have stuck in your face,

to let you know,

that they are cool,

without a shred of evidence,

to back that shit up.

“I write poetry”

means they have some poems,

they wrote one day,

about their ex,

with frequent use,

of the word,

“L-O-V-E”

(gross)

Having poems stashed away,

does not make one an asshole.

Quite the contrary,

but,

to use said poems,

to declare oneself a poet,

within the first five minutes,

of meeting me,

makes one a festering asshole.

Where have all the natives gone?

No one who lives here,

was born here.

The few natives that can be found,

want to move away.

A constant juxtaposition,

occurs every second or third year,

of Californians movin’ away,

and Mid-Westerners,

Southern Folk,

and Yankeys,

movin’ in.

No one who lives here,

was born here.

except me,

the bastard son of California.