Stravinsky in L.A.

In white pleated trousers, peering through green sunshades, looking for the way the sun is red noise, how locusts hiss to replicate the sun. What is the visual equivalent of syncopation? Rows of seared palms wrinkle in the heat waves through green glass. Sprinklers tick, tick, tick. The Watts Towers aim to split the sky into chroma, spires tiled with rubble nothing less than aspiration. I’ve left minarets for sun and syncopation, sixty-seven shades of green which I have counted, beginning: palm leaves, front and back, luncheon pickle, bottle glass, etcetera. One day I will comprehend the different grades of red. On that day I will comprehend these people, rhythms, jazz, Simon Rodia, Watts, Los Angeles, aspiration.