little wing on Hollywood Blvd

I dare not say 'fly on little wing, little wing' - not yet.
The night is dark out there, the palm trees silent in their own yellowgreen ways, a lonely star blinking, survivor of the citylights... Homesick feelings remote now only, somewhere in the back of the head. more so there are heart sick feelings wrapped in melancholic outlooks on love and life, ridiculously repeating the outlines of my beliefs: how everything happens for a reason, how there is no such thing as coincidence, - adding values to maybe meaningless inanities; attempts to stir the ship somewhat safely over the unknown but beloved sea...
What if the bird decides to build its nest this spring on a different tree? What if the little wing has to fly on? What if? What if the warrior aims with the wrong arm and then cuts her own breast? The one she didn't cut off?

Hollywood Blvd drenched with questions, maybe as unreal as the facades of the houses and the seemingly out-of-the-world weirdos I admire while sitting in the Sciencetology building entry with Guiseppe, my friend from the road, drinking green tea that we boiled over a mini-camp-stove, eating unhealthy pizza and smiling at the people who might see in us just two other homeless in the drowning overwhelmingness of the city. floating, never resting, with so much fickle past.