In Mediterranean L.A. there's a fresh sea breeze, the Spanish oaks don't hide the young women's corpse, raped and strangled, you'll never see those eyes which in life would have bruised your heart, sands of the Sahara blow down Vermont, take a left on Pico through Little San Salvador, shifts in timeless winds reveal the fifteen-year-old boy shot twice through the back by sheriff's deputies as he ran from a stolen vehicle, you fucked up, in Siberian LA taiga obscures the horizon, who knows where you may end up, dark clouds blow sleet and sheets of rain down Alameda, the train station disappears in the blizzard, Olvera Street with icicles, five below zero at Siquieros' America Tropical, the crucified Indian is pecked by the gringo eagle, burnt out on Turkish L.A., you cough where homeless children play along immense adobe walls in sandals and huaraches...the sirens...Thai L.A...the victims...the seamstresses and garment workers returning...the sun like a cracked egg...Scottish L.A....bones, twine, tufts of hair.

-from the poet Sesshu Foster's 1996 poetry-prose collection "City Terrace Field Manual."

Amazing stuff. Of mixed-ancestry, he grew up in the LA neighborhood Boyle Heights the hard way and made it sing. Read some of his work.