Jeff Hewitt is a former television producer based in Los Angeles, California (USA).
Originally from Oswego, New York, he attended Goldsmiths University of London and
has a BA in Photography. He left the television world last year to pursue writing full time,
and is currently finishing his first sci-fi novel as he skips between LA, NY, and London.

Last Inspection

I saw the end of the world
in the west Texas desert

a straight line
of gravel and sand
beyond which there was nothing
but pale blue

I couldn't take my eyes off it
passing the same white truck
every half mile

sure you could drive right over the edge
straight into oblivion

straining to look over a stalled train
stacked with rows of green tanks
all facing East

burnt trees
and sun bleached bones

as traffic cones crowded the lanes
rightmost first
until the white trucks and I
had been kettled against a double yellow line

speed limit decreasing
programmable signs flashing


and my twelve-year-old silver box
rolled to standstill
in front of a Border Patrol agent
with a flak jacket
and a hand resting on his holster

flies swarming
to eat their friends
that had exploded on my windshield

he asked me for identification
and if I was a US citizen

handing and answering
"Yes sir, I am indeed"

as he looked
into the back of my car

seats folded down
packed to the brim for the apocalypse
that I can see coming all around me

"Anybody else on board?"

shaking my head

unsure myself
at that very moment

before he waved me on
down the highway

racing along the edge of the end.

City Grass

Wheatgrass is sprouting
on the side of the road

in the unlikeliest of places"

David Attenborough
narrates in my head

beneath the green yellow red
of a stoplight
and the always-on LEDs
of a shop I've never seen open

It's seeding

wispy beige hairs on green stalks
waving after tailwinds
pulling a new ecosystem down Virgil Ave

how quickly it would take root
if the cars stopped passing
and the lights stopped humming:

asphalt cracking
under the steady pressure
of slow growth in dry heat

a grid of grasslands
in five years or less

the wilds creeping back
to claim what was once theirs

But until then
the blades will keep poking
out of every gap in every curb

swaying innocently
at the edge of the blacktop.


A man with a cane
wandered into the coffee shop

stooped under the fluorescents
the live moss foyer

twisted plastic bag
hanging from one hand

he asked


to the confused looks
of the barista
curled hair bobbing

and the two scrolling customers
slouched over bare concrete
and mismatched cups

all shaking their heads

"Tu no sabes?"
he asked
shaking his own
and smiling

as they apologized
and he shuffled back through the entrance

because none of them knew

that Paradise
is a Mexican restaurant
up the street.

Red Green Orange and Blue

Red, green, orange, and blue
the colors of the tents
lined along the sidewalk
on my way to work

they leave a small path
next to the junkers
people are living in
parked on Cahuenga

each car a landfill
stuffed to the brim with
randomly collected

shattered cymbals and
grimy old wall clocks
that are right twice daily
bleached grey by the sun

sharing dashboard space
with broken guitars
and miles of dead cables
linked up to the lean-tos

propped up plywood boards
and stolen blue tarps
sagging over concrete
to block out the sun

Sometimes I'll hear them
huddled up inside
listening to static
pumped from God knows what

to drown out the noise
that comes and goes with
the Hollywood traffic
ticking down the day

and when I walk back
through their encampment
at the end of my shift
sometimes they'll have moved

either up the block
or onto Homewood—
construction adjacent
for the time being

until those buildings
rise up from the ground
and the tents in their wake
will move once again

pushed farther upstream
by the short arm of
private security
keeping the streets clean

They'll pack it all up
in their shopping carts
slouching into the night
with nowhere to go

but back to the maze
of endless sidewalks
that form California's
lavish welfare state

leaving a trail of
cardboard mats, needles,
and bottles of iced tea
refilled with brown piss

and from the garage
idling behind
the Cinerama Dome
I'll think about them

Whoever it was
that called these streets home

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