Radium waves crash against a black beach. Pilgrims from
Toledo Indianapolis Cleveland
rub sunscreen on pasty ribs,
kick an embroidered sack of beans across a circle, shade their screens from the sun,
swipe left and left and right,
Every time we think the great migration has climaxed
God shoves his fingers in deeper,
The city shifts and gasps
and braces for the next wave
They have come to take over the world
armed with touch screens,
highschool revenge fantasies,
and a dream of a new society where everyone but them are obsolete.
Tomorrow the future will be yesterday.
Driving over the bridge from Oakland we play count the cranes, Never fewer than 20,
Building homes for the new world in their hard drives.
Every day the city pales til it shines silver
Every day another drone is watching
Every day new uniforms of blue and orange
Make their way from China to the supply closets of 850 Bryant
Fuck DC. This is the capital of the United States. This is where the world is made and run.
We sit by Lake Anza and wonder if Revolution is a fantasy as obsolete as VHS.
If we should stay and fight for what remains
Of stolen Coastal Miwok and Ohlone land,
Somewhere with the high ground where Google Maps has no street view and Amazon doesn’t deliver .
If you can’t beat them buy an RV
and a boat
and a gun
and stock up on penicillin