By Mark Dixon
Santa Ana wind
comes off desolate stretches of Route 66
whips down arroyos and mountain passes
soars to the sea.
Santa Ana wind
whines through Assyrian parapets
of City Hall
down Cesar Chavez
up the dawn-red canyons of glass
around well-kept Jewish towers
of Fairfax, Park La Brea
Santa Ana wind
makes nights oppressive, sleep elusive
speaks of steamy nights alone with a friend
Otis Redding on the radio
cigarettes in the car
Secret messages from your guitar
played at midnight for your ears only
rise like the scent of sinsemilla
to my loft upstairs
where I still lie awake as well
No soft westerlies in the twilight
fanning palm fronds as you play
no ocean breezes
no trade winds whispering aloha
through your half-open balcony doors
Only sweat, oppressive heat
and Santa Ana wind
searing the soul of the city
in one long hot breath
the Mojave exhaled.
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