Following up on that last post about the horrifying anthology,
I might as well post my poem here, where it will not be subjected
to mysterious line breaks and column formatting.
When you hit the pavement and bounced
from the sidewalk at Central Avenue
were you aware that your spirit still clung
to that seventh story ledge?
Where your whitened apparition
would haunt guests of those halls
into the next century.
Found making blood angels in the concrete.
No one could tell whether you were pushed
too far or if you were persuaded
to dive into eternity
by your own drowning heart.
A 22 year old actress from Los Angeles.
You likely checked in to the San Carlos
to ride that first Phoenix elevator
up to those first air-conditioned rooms.
Not because the water coursing through
this hotel’s copper veins was being drawn
from a basement well directly over a sacred
Hohokam spring. Siphoning ancient water
from room to room. Energy flowing
between faucets and drains.
You likely checked in
to the Hotel San Carlos
in 1928, unaware
that even from the afterlife
you would be unable
to ever check out.