Doomed For the Change

Armpits smell in insurance elevators.
I sit amidst crumbs and compose.
Fear is the milkshake of the night,
Emulating Santa Barbara geneticists and mathematical economists,
Beautiful plant smoke.

I am an image on the screen
Of that coca-cola stained video game
That pushes me toward extinction
Without adolescent quarters
Or ephemeral women.

I saw a film on Nicaragua.
The people are awakening,
Rubbing the profit sleep from their eyes,
While I slumber in the mowed grass
Of California deserts
Doomed for the change,
A draining suburban happiness
That will not end.