San Francisco, July 2018

Radium waves crash against a black beach. Pilgrims from


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,

Or flee

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