The blue glass where we live our sunlit part
Asks only we stay quiet, for the murmur
Of what has transcended us, in common share,
The common's tragic end in keen elite listening,
To the white noise there, all the secrets
Burrowed in like grain for ancient rats.
It is so clean, the air, so crisp in execution
And weejun wax. We leave no trace,
For we touch no hands, at our best,
Let all success turn to failure
And failure our greatest success.
The clock that we keep measures the mind
Of the one, the living corporation
We incompletely fill.
We are unreal
For most of the day, as the sunlight tracks
The Hollywood sign, descends into flame
Above Wilshire every single night...
The weather's unpredictable
In Southern California,
The micro-climates,
The infinite flow.
