First Casey Kasem,
and now Ryan Seacrest,
pilot our plastic ship
across an ocean of crackling blue cellophane.

Hair a Brylcreem’d wave
frosted at the tips with a froth of chemical scum.
Teeth like shark’s teeth
eyes as dead as shark’s eyes;
the cargo is cheerful
but our skeleton crew is dead.

The loudspeakers aim a siren call
over the jagged reef:
If you don’t come to California
California will come to you.


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