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There is a certain rhythm of life in Silverlake
That you don’t feel
unless you walk with it
Down Hyperion Avenue
pass the greenest of green hills
in a one block stretch
Houses first sold by owner
Then with a for sale by realtor sign
Wishing no houses or property would sell
lest it make way for a block cube unit
that makes no sense
to the shape of the neighborhood
The neighborhood that’s a contradiction in terms
as a beautiful bush with red brush flowers
blooms its way out of the sidewalk
amidst empty beer bottles and condom packs
The Angel’s Theatre on one side
and the boy’s bar is across the street
wherein they carouse all night
and play out their own theatre
My friends go see plays
while I can see live theatre
right on my street
of bar hoppers and crawlers
Past the stretch of houses
and auto body shops,
the restaurants and bustling corner
where pizza is served late
and the option of three Italian diners can be had
Where the Zen restaurant looms large
and SUVs, Ramblers, VW bugs, and Toyota trucks
go in and out in a steady stream
of the Trader Joe’s parking lot
Where videos can be rented
And where tacos and burritos are sold until 2 am
Where the street men before retiring for the night
hit me up for one last quarter.
And where raccoons slip in and out of storm drains
and coyotes sprint across the road
And I finally sit back down on my porch
resign myself to the fact that I’m staying home,
a baby opossum or two come out on the railing
to eat out of the catfood dish
and skunks make their way
their time of night, their theatre
And that is just in my front yard.
While the cars stream by,
the boys holler,
the screech of brakes goes on during the night
and the honking horns persist
And when I sleep and it’s past 2 am
the boys invite themselves
into my broken down garage
and play out their parts
while I sleep above,
not getting any of the lust
that goes on down below.
And people are laughing, but then not
as Hyperion becomes its own race track to the dangerous few
Nobody slows down
and sometimes they become
forever embedded, part of the pavement
And when the silent dawn sweeps over slumbering Silverlake
That’s the best time to get up
And the cats snore near by and the dog does too
And I feed them all
and then take a walk up the street again
Either back up Hyperion to Say Cheese
for ‘coffee to go,’
or to Sunset past Circus of Books,
to the French café
And I walk past others who themselves
look relieved that it’s morning
and that it is quiet
And my shoes pound the pavement
through the daily Silverlake rhythm
past the green hills
dotted by Craftsman houses
and various shaped dwellings, years and eras
entangled in morning glories in full bloom
squirrels running across trees
and telephone lines
dogs barking at me through fences
birds in trees and in cages on porches
colorfully painted houses
freshly tagged graffiti’d walls
aromas of coffeehouses
and coffeepots brewing in windows
or stale beer from empties sitting
next to garbage cans
and meticulous gardens and hilly streets
and why... can’t I ever move away from it?
© 2005, Teresa Conboy
Teresa Conboy has worked as a freelance publicist/writer for the past 15 years in Los Angeles in the community of Silverlake, loves Beat Generation literature, and has written articles about the music industry and various subjects for arts & entertainment publications. She is currently working on a series of short stories.
Back to the article > “Chorus of Poets Gather for ‘Howl’ Celebration: the 50th anniversary,” an account by Teresa Conboy
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