Shadows for Breakfast

Culvert City finds rain draining; let me be the one in LA

by Wes Biggs

I try not to believe in the rain, try not to put too much faith in the clouds. TV weathermen wind up their storm watches every winter, and when they're not wrong they're nonetheless all wet. At times I think
I'll cut a hole in my umbrella so I can tell at a glance that it's not raining.
Still, when it finally does start coming down after weeks or months, and everyone forgets how to drive for a day or two, I'm bound to be listening to the patter outside, those rivulets of condensation making rhythmic conversation, and if I listen too long it starts to turn to a song:
When it pours in Los Angeles the pavement bleeds tar, and old men in raincoats chew on old cigars. Alleyways bubble with rumbles of rain and I wonder if I'll ever see you again.
When it pours in Los Angeles the sewers erupt. Beggars stand wearily wet with hands cupped. Pigeons seek refuge in traffic-light red and the planes overhead sing a dirge for the dead.
So let it rain in Los Angeles. Let the city streets flood. Let the reservoirs clog up with smog dust and mud. Let it rain in Los Angeles--let the drab drainpipes drool. Let me stand in the middle of the road like a fool.
Yeah, let it rain in Los Angeles. Let me be the one. Let me forget all my days in the sun. Let me look up to a solid gray sky. Let me shiver at night in wet clothes `til I die.
In the rain in Los Angeles I'm all I can be, but I feel like I've knocked out opportunity. In the rain in Los Angeles with a rose in my fist as a dirt-cheap memento of chances I've missed.
And the rain in Los Angeles isn't good for my complexion, as far as I can tell from these puddles' reflections. And the rain in Los Angeles beats on their cerebella and the thought surfaces that I'm my own worst umbrella.
So I go home in Los Angeles to the buzzing of lights and methodical ticking of clocks through the night. I go home in Los Angeles to my bookshelves and lamps and records and tapes and collections of stamps.
I go home in Los Angeles to a room of my own and I talk to myself so I won't feel alone. This is home, this Los Angeles, at least for a while and if I said otherwise it would be self-denial.
Now it's cold in Los Angeles and the raindrops have ceased, and I think any day now I shall be released. It's so cold in Los Angeles that my heart rate has slowed, and my pulse sends me tremors of gloom in Morse code.
Now it's cold in Los Angeles and I stare at the wall. I try hard to think about nothing at all. It's so cold in Los Angeles and I sleep in half-dark, and I dream of the rain in University Park.
And I dream of the rain in University Park; and I dream of the city that glows in the dark; and I dream `til the morning with smog-filtered sun:
Let me be the one.
Let me be the one.