To Alexander Zholkovsky, in Exile in Los Angeles
Pre-post-structuralist Alik
wheels away from USC jn
the morn, his sandals meld
with the pedals, this street
rolls his bicycle, steel shines on spokes.
Bearded Alik, in search of nude beaches,
Down to the sea, except it’s not down
but sraight, the hills in the distance
already hazy in the purple-brown
translucence of photochemical smog.
The sun is warm on his back, dyeing
away Ithaca winters. Alik
in unrainy Southern California
and he doesn’t drive.
Cycle on, Pasternakian friend.
Cycle on, Alik, only thirty miles to the nearest beach.
They say the sands of Venice are pearky
and auburn girls crowd fabled Malibu.
If you long to see the surf of sainted Monica
do not be deterred, Alik
by the tar pits of La Brea
the muffler shops of Sepulveda Blvd.
Stop at the Church of the Spirit of Holy Monetarism,
detour for a semiotic analysis of El Segundo’s taco shop signs.
There is no Penelope waiting at home…
Oh, Alik, have the Angeleno lotus-eaters
sated you with their buckthorn weed?
Buy yourself some chaps, wuth deerskin
gfringes to blow in the wind as you ride, and
come home, Alik
(Roald Hoffmann, The Metamoict State. Orlando: University Presses of Florida, 1987. P. 86.)