Topacio Althaus is a thing that happens and grows and flourishes in Los Angeles like a rumor or a stereotype. She’s a poet. A singer-slash-songwriter. A barista. A reliably clever morning conversation, quality banter from the other side of an espresso machine. She could exist anywhere, but makes a hell of a lot of sense here. And she serves up caffeine in one of L.A.’s rare middle-class neighborhoods, right around the corner from my garage, which is stuffed full of McLaren 675LT. Pecked out on an old-fashioned typewriter, this was her response to seeing that $350,000 supercar for the first time.
Ode to the McLaren
to transport our bodies
inside cars we adorn
with green sheens &
a carbon fiber worn to
battle weather, like some
swarm of a ten thousand
feather storm, as she
consumes our form, like
a child within a womb,
with her slightly curves
we use to swerve around
mountain turns
which smooth out our
nerves, as we
listen intently to
the burly beast
who lurks within the
engine, swiftly climb-
ing to reach the
destination,
even if
just to visit
the nearest gas station,
for we have
taken her out to be
seen,
we have taken her out
to succumb to the
beauty of
machine,
as we slowly
inch
her out of the
guts of
our cluttered
garage.
-topacio
