Thirty miles or so south of L. A. stand two hangars, like two tombs on the plain between the freeway and the mountains,
The servants strike. Repelled by dust and rotting garbage they shovel each other
When the heart valve buckles or the brain vessel ruptures and I, at last accomplished, stumble sloshed in blood over the edge of the earth into the faulty recall of a few people, don’t weep for me.
