still life with parking

Watching the sun set over asphalt
and warehouse air-compressor engines,
heat turns orange with blue fading halos,
where grackles intimidate between
near death grasshoppers and
worthy weather females,
chortling youth and immortality.

Radiation surf peaks under
Hondas, Fords, Mercedes,
duelies, sedans, and SUVs
aligned in painted rows of
alternating parallel stacks,
earnest to burn surplus histories
of extinct ferns and brine shrimp.

Through pools of transparent
glass panes and steel frames,
crisp sovereign air exhales fluid patrons,
in plastic bag clusters over wrists,
sway every step for salvation,
fulfillment in 5 minute doses,
consumption contemplation completion.

School boys, school girls at any age
sticky to the paramount of their times
swim rooster in fashions
of young id dread patterns,
or grandmas perspiring in pink paisleys,
vinyl and cotton composites chafing
to cover granddaughter or son.

Songs of Los Angles on fire
transmit over stereo speakers
driven beyond specification,
skipping tar pits in the distance,
where the next asphalt tide
revolves on a revenue prayer wheel
of entropy and inclination.

And, at the curb boundaries,
continuous still life with parking,
weekly couture and inverted rain
from underground pipe aquifers
and the buzz-whip of piston-driven plastic
thrashing lush dynamics
to hard straight lines and common grid culture.

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