A Tree Without Leaves

"There is a time to stop reading,
there is a time to STOP trying to WRITE,
there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of ART out on its whore-ass.”
--Charles Bukowski.

My city is a lot more than some frozen
Sparkling stars on the streets of Hollywood Blvd.
My city is also the depressingly empty libraries
And the malls filled like a rotting can of sardines
Full of robots looking for the right wiring
For their otherwise languid guise
My city is retreat:
The obliquely
Planted
Perceptions
Infiltrated by gigantic glittering television sets
And believed by millions of barren minds
Who hunger only for more want
And generic fucking idols
They can sing-along to
My city is the next century of defeat:
Consumption consuming its very catalyst:
The need-- desire:
My city is a tree without leaves.
But on the positive side
We have some lovely fucking weather.