Forgive me, Silverlake.
When I am in you, the urge toward socio-anthropological vivisection is too great.
I want to eat you,
and spit out flannel fibers in strings of lumberjack plaid.

Forgive me, Silverlake.
I know I expect too much,
but still I expect.
You are the twilight zone between that guy I knew in Los Feliz, and that guy I knew in Glendale, but you always had the best turntable.

Forgive me, Silverlake.
I think of you too much.
You smell like your dad probably smelled, or some uncle.
Or how you imagine Jon Brion might smell.
Or the childhood recollection of the pale peach apartment, of your Russian piano teacher,
tinged with musk breath of Oak and nicotine,
washed upwards on Santa Ana currents through the canyons.
Or just Patchouli.

Forgive me, Silverlake.
I want to come correct with this hatchet-job of a heart.
I want to stop bleeding on your custom cabinetry.
I seek the kata of the earnest blasé.
Show me the steps to the bird’s eye view, so I can pretend that I am not an Earth-bound stone.
I seek artisanal avoidance, with citrus.

Forgive me, Silverlake.
I am sentimental.
And envious
of the girl from that party, who made me crave furniture polish, with her shiny brown bangs,
like muddled chocolate and Hendricks gin.
Her curves did not beckon, and her face did not move.
Everyone was left holding the bag, because she was blameless.
Her entire seduction beckoned, despite her.
She was anti-sexual and we were all animals,
vying to lap raspberry pulp out of her cracked obsidian.
And everyone agreed parking was shitty.

Forgive me, Silverlake.
I compare you to your past.
Your ragged, bohemian days, when my father was dating a Jewish girl, named Alice.
He had a German shepherd, and a van.
He talks about you as a wilderness of the libido, and of “good white people”
who were generous with the herb.
He wore plaid, lumberjack shirts back then,
so maybe not that much has changed.

Forgive me, Silverlake.
I grew up in West LA,
with goth boys.
Drinking instant coffee.

Forgive me, Silverlake.
I have culture envy.
I want my haircut to mean something.
I called Eagle Rock, but I was thinking of you.
I talk shit at parties because I don’t want you to know
how much I like you.

Raya Yarbrough

Singer, Composer, writer of absurd stories about LA, chanteuse on Outlander, BSG, DaVinci's Demons, & I used to date Dick Grayson.