PORTRAIT OF HOME AS FUNERAL PYRE BY JAMIE AVERY
california is a sunburn all peeling
flaking skin. hot tar leaps! up
in cauldron-like bubbles of black sticky
ooze dripping down the forearms
of interstate. orange skies shout down
at the poor fucks on their commute.
mocks their wasted days. their rubber &
did you really
think you could stop the sun?
did you not see the lighting? could
you not hear the thunder? this
was always coming for us. & really
we should have known. now
we play catch up in the red
november sun. & i don’t know if we
survive this. but if we do california
will be my only inheritance. & like
all blood-lent wealth it will not be
earned. & there will have been a price.