Standing at the glass-paneled wall of Liza’s kitchen at the old house half-hidden
Over a mile up Canyon Road in Joshua’s gated compound
I’m just smoking a joint & looking down at the dusk dusting the Malibu lights as they flare
Along the coastline below & I can hear the ripped-up
Buick fenders & Caddy bumpers slammed around out in the barn studio as they’re slowly
Torched into art as Joshua moves the spitting arc-welder
Over armatures of rebar shaping a dozen abstract guitars or mandolins while its
Acetylene tongue ticks in the black shade of his visor
Once in a while his back-in-the-day transistor radio hooked on a nail bent in the wall
Cuts through the sizzle with a hit of his that’s slipped
Lately back into fashion & I’ve watched him slowly lift the head of that torch until it angles
Against the turquoise plastic moon of the radio dial
As if he might melt it all back to a few black platters—those times as lost as song