Santa Annas
Looking deep into
fleshly faces
During the time of
dry, spirit-filled airs
and
screens only.
Meatspace is now
uncanny.
A hillside fire
consumes.
The ancestors are
with us--
In our wrinkles,
our laughter, our foibles, our prejudices.
Now we are an
electronic parody
Of past
and
regressive, recycled present.
The time of the
Old Ones in Power is closing, as they shake with rage and terror
sucking
all they can from us, like the illusions and headaches of Santa Ana winds.
Some leaves fall,
others disintegrate on the branch.
10/12/18
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