The Magical Box: Valentine’s Day Notes on Traction Avenue in Downtown L.A.

There’s a box with a flag on it, a mail box that’s not run by the US Postal Service. You have to walk up to it. A neighborhood, a city, a world shares it. You can stick you hand in it. You can pull out stuff you want. How do you like the sound of that?

A guy friend and I went on a writing spree. We wrote Valentine’s Day notes for you of those who can traverse this street, Traction Avenue in Downtown Los Angeles this weekend. We invite you, we implore you to visit and fetch yourself sweet nothings and paper-cuts, on us.

We put in 39 short works we wrote on our own and some collectively. We wrote them from various genders, places, mindsets over Thursday, February the 12th. We numbered them. One day we’ll get to 666 poems perhaps, over the years. This time, we’re calling this #TakeMe2015. Take me, sex and drugs. They call to you? What calls to you? Tell us. Come get a love note from us to you, from us to Los Angeles and places and people like the ones that surround our everyday.

Each note contains some kisses, some DNA.




found some change on the streets today

gonna rub those round things together.

if i rub you,

will you squirt me w/ your benevolence?




I’m not as cloudy as the future but I live inside a smoky garden you can’t enter.

There are cherubims at the gate with swords made of brimstone, whose chests glow nuclear.

I wait inside a possibility that I’ll see you again, teach you about the way my body is a field where you’ll plant a nation.

I now gather my sighs for the evening, sewing my dreams into a lavender needle – that’s the entrance, honey.

I’m waiting.


Take this and fold it up

put it in your pocket

sign it like a docket



Celery stalks at midnight

Put it in a locket

Like that piece of hair you removed from my head

amongst other things






in my mouth




point the way




Today I’m the Sargasso, baby – all these things I’m thinking are stuck in slow-motion – you sliding past in such detail it burns. Tonight, I’m your Krakatoa – no matter how far you run, I’m going to cover you in my ash and heat.




My cock is like a lock pick. That’s all you need to know, Fort Knox.



Like Lucy said to Albert, you’re like my chicken and goose in the ride

Glide through the ages like lube. Hold on tight to your pride like how my fingers grab your pubes

Imagined Parsons

Revolution is sex




Juice me like a debutante on a diet

Bruise me like a s&m shrink does a client

Coconut crème, your nectar is a dream

I can go buy it for 11 bucks down the street

with some 50 dollar pillow cases at the sample sale

same old hell

but at least you’re here, my lil belle

ring it

ding dong it




Vengeance by mine

breathing dildo be mine

I wreck myself

for 10 seconds

b/c I remembered I’m in LA

I touch myself




I used to write things that sounded like Trent Reznor coughed them up in a New Orleans TB hospital. Now I want to write things more beautiful, like the blood in the handkerchief Shelley kept in his pocket after Keats died.

Beautiful, just like you






Cornelia grew up in the wooded lands of The Blair Witch and the times of the nineties. She's learning the trials and tribulations of phone app dating on the dirty streets of Downtown Los Angeles, whilst making sure Hollywood stays Satanic and playing the theremin.

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