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 &

their tears.


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.