My city’s angels, all working-class sweat and millionaire smiles. Asphalt halos, wings as strong as barrio souls. A blood of excitation and impending doom runs through their tectonic-plate veins. They’re free-spirited and freeway-spined. Forged from the bloodied and beautified earth of Hollywood Hills and Chavez Ravine. My city’s angels walk across fire, across water. Speak the language of hustlers and heroes, saints and serial killers. By day, my city’s angels bear crucifixes. By night, they wield rosaries of bones and roses as they float high above a city whose twinkling lights resemble illuminated tombstones in a graveyard of the absolutely alive.