"Running, Los Angeles"

Kenneth Hahn State Park, Los Angeles, California

Running, Los Angeles

Alight, cruel cradle we love

at a frenzy, feverishly, we revel

in our Fertile Crescent:

shoreline and peaks

warmed in effectively

one season, teeming tangle

conveying every terrain: trail profusion,

open tracks, streets, beaches,

sidewalks, bridges, mortar,

asphalt, and concrete

past capacity, or

as much as a runner

can want, and take

more, relaying

the angels’ metropolis

grounded, grinding between

tent cities and Bel-Air, uneven, every

background and the first place my friend

from Georgia heard the worst

from some asshole

while running, alone, another

needle-sharp point, piercing

and stitching too much

together, this city,

county, state

of self-sabotage,

thick with the idyllic

and inequity, sexism,

and clarity around sexism,

what one calls

late-stage like a spell

cast with hope on misogyny,

capitalism, racism, bigotry

of all kinds on louder,

longer, stronger

callouts, this

is for everyone,

this has to,

must nurture the falls

and the finisher medals,

the wins and the blow-ups,

injuries, podiums, leaderboard

losses, personal records, segment

catches, and losing

your damn mind

on game day,

and the money

and the brands

and pop-ups and product launches

and brand ambassadors and seeding

and toxic growth and divisions between work

and passion and self and time a sobering and ongoing joke

and return-on-investment and good reviews

and paid promotion and no budget

and more budget and not,

never enough budget

and, but, more so,

this is a language and a lifestyle

and many cultures and every emotion

more than anything, and you see us crying

in photos and videos, us, crying, sobbing, crying

in sweet, salty release

and pain and elation

and the moments that move us

when others are moved and we cry together

with others who are crying with those who are crying

with others who are themselves crying and finding better ways to cry

and breathe out and in with new room to open in the ducts we widen in the lungs

that need more air to move blood and cry and breathe harder, deeper, longer, and ask for more when we run and need even more when we see more suicides averted and need more room for more air and blood to move and keep muscles in motion when running anywhere but especially when crying with strangers in races where no one’s a stranger, not really, a cast of commitment as catalog, spectrum of backstories, preparation or no preparation all aiming for one place for a time, and crying, inside or outside, when we see some are completely, utterly done, then evening one’s breathing to fall in with their pace and urging, telling them, yes, and they tell us no way, not one more step, fuck you, keep going, I have to stop, and still walking or jogging or running with them into a finish line where they cry, and then crying on your terms and leaving them to cry with others and going back to find more and find the shared breathing with more of us wearing salt in rough patches and pale stripes, prickled nerves and scabs long and short, drying blood and fresh blood and burns on skin and every type of skin clapping hands and holding each other and raised

among those who show what we can give

and finding others who give

and we give even more

to each other with where

we want to go and where we

want to see each other get to, then

go in clusters, direct message threads, friend groups

with no outreach at all, and emails,

social media accounts,

meetups, groups,

teams, mobs,

calls, and schedules