i was born at the eastern edge of the santa monica mountain range
brought up as a boy, staring out at the searchlights
convinced the winds would pull me in to flight
every night, in a bush-era dream
i'd watch the dodgers on our television screen
sometimes the train, sounding miles away
would echo on the broadcast like a tape delay
and i'd be gone
i was a teen cast into the sprawl
americana, no horizon, my free fall
an early grief, inversion layer
hoped to be gone
when the stars behind polluted light
no longer guide us through the night
to be alive and not know why
it terrifies
now i'm older, not yet wise
i climb the angeles crest to broadcast my goodbye
at the end of the night, the past is all i can hear
but it's just a.m. waves bouncing off the atmosphere
already gone
when the sea recedes and mountains rise
when our faults devour power lines
to leave los angeles behind
it terrifies