Electric death and we're all feeling it.
The pulse throbbing underneath the soil
like a magazine full of black and white images.
From the fifties where the people are gone
but the building still remains.
The bricks whispering cool serene things past,
the women wearing tall hats,
the men straight backed and sneering,
the children quiet,
the holes in the memories.
Everyone looking but not seeing
the cliff in plain sight.
Because all this is for posterity's sake.
Steaks and freight and Sharon Tate.
Studying the massacres to get it just right.
Writing a book about what went wrong
just so we can say the next one was just so.
We are all feeling it,
and yet,
not at all.
