Our precarious present, where we invite people to light campfires under power poles.
Our near future, lifting her skirt.
We are an unfinished mural.
We are poised between decaying mid-century cool and someone else’s postponed development scheme. We reveal unintentional beauty on a gust of wind.
But mostly we are too much of this. For we are a ragged outpost of City Hall and Sacramento and Brentwood, mute, dependable and too disorganized to complain.
She won’t save us. We can put the comic books down and save ourselves. Merry Christmas, one and all.