jazzed out art cats fuck on b street
amid wind crimped smoke trees and stolid mesquites
who mock the ghosts of impoverished clay
the toxified runoff from decorative palm farms
lithium and salt and the slow death stink of tilapia
the pelicans that bob on placid water
know something i don't
about a sea too dead to sell for parts
alive in algal haze but unwell
a late afternoon malaises beneath the fallout
of the santa rosa mountains
of mud pots and obsidian secrets
buried just above the surface of calamitous history
yet so quiet like jazz ascending
untold litters of art
and recreation and commerce and desertion
reincarnating by the roadside
slow death stink!
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