Steve De France (D2D

AMERICAN LANDSCAPE

Hollywood Indians—A POW WOW—Tribal dancer—Potters—Weavers—Silversmiths. City Indians wired–wearing beepers & holding raspberries, camera phones, uploading personal websites, as others call theatrical agents.

Bargaining over Turquoise prices—just as their road side-seller ancestors had done. Then it was on a blanket at the side of Santa Fe road—now in a studio parking lot. I buy a lithograph, overpay with plastic. I am told to “Go with the Owl.”

Their eyes are dark—indifferent—detached. I want to move into their remote eyes, but my vision is obscured by the Trail of Tears, the Massacre at Sand Creek, and the Slaughter at Wounded Knee. Indian eyes clouded over by the darkness that comes with the death of a culture.

I drive back to town on Sunset Boulevard. Hollywood—a town with its legs wide open, an American landscape where fast food swathes the neon night sky with burning cow flesh. Here lowered La Bamba cars rumble & boom behind darkened windows, prowling bistros teeming with stale sex, XXX rated movies, and live sex acts.

Angels of the night wait on street corners for some old-fashioned rock & roll. City streets teem with new immigrants, domestic freaks, or Zoo People from Montana come to touch Bogart’s wig, or Monroe’s wax breast.

As the night moves past caring, men pay eight dollars at the Pussy Cat Theater (Hollywood & Ivar Streets) where they watch walls of rolling flesh looking for a close up on love.

Steve De France teaches writing at a community college in downtown Los Angeles. He also has a small sailboat in Long Beach, California. On September 15, 2006, his play The Killer opened for a 6 week run. He says he has more publications than a sane man needs. To take a look at them visit www.defrancepoetry.com.

Dance to Death, Issue IV