Desiccated

This used to be Mission Beach
but not anymore. So-Cal is gone,
so are the Mormons and the Oakies too,
all swallowed in The Quake.

Now we lie here on our backs baking
in Memphis sands, stripped dust bowls.

Obsolete oil machinery pump
in the background, serenading us,
sucking up magma clear to China.

Revolted, I bite the inside of my cheek
rubbing her sharkskin with cocoa butter,
dreaming of grass and palms trees.

We are but dried crustaceans skittering
along dead lands as it seems cars
no longer need gasoline,
but still drain our resources.

I see seagulls and tonight I'll fry
them in butter because there is nothing left.