Marilyn Frankie Blue Eyes California,

too beefy to cram

into a single poem,

you keep it all 

to yourself: these hills,

this desert, this ocean

of need. You invented FOMO;

perfected it, you punchy wretch.

You first and final

vestige of Want,

The Omega / The Alpha /

The Alameda / The Mega /

the weight of your celebrity 

dead sinking, sucking through

the silt, tilting the West Coast 

into the churning deep.

Sweet Southwest, these San Jacintos

snarl, threaten to roll 

you up or under, 

to choke you with granite

countertops consume you,

drown you in LA’s flood,

Kubrick’s Shining elevators,

an El Niño of blood.

Marilyn Frankie Blue Balls California,

fatal destination of gold diggers

and punks and prawns,

all seafoam and bubblegum

and white.

Lazer-bleached teeth,

photoshopped, propped

in the Death Valley sun for forty years 

white.

Land of cloudless skies and Botox tits,

thundering into your left eardrum

like Saint Paul’s Helter Skelter bass:

a stiff pecker seeking 

any warm landing place. 

Throwing up, throttling under,

swallowing the whole fucking globe.